


Ghosts of Future Past

by etrix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Episode: s04e04 Metamorphosis, Fix-It, Gen, Ghosts, Humor, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Season/Series 04, Supernatural Gen Big Bang, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etrix/pseuds/etrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean already knows that the future isn't looking good. Sam's sneaking out at night and lying about it. Dean's pretty sure the angels are dicks and that they're lying to him, too. It isn't until he gets a visit from his own ghost that he realizes just how bad it's going to get, and the future that was becomes part of Dean's memories of the past. Surely, with all that he knows, he can fix things—if he can stay alive and sane, that is. A season 4 AU that bumps into seasons 5 and 6. Written for the 2011 spn_gen_bigbang challenge. Art by amber1960.</p>
<p>Broadly inspired by a_phoenixdragon's excellent 2010 spn_j2_bigbang piece, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/4810">Perspectives</a>, which left me feeling melancholy, and for some reason (because it never happens in her story) gave me the image of Dean in a hospital bed, quietly rejecting the comfort Sam tries to offer. The brain can be a weird, weird place.</p>
<p>Originally posted on livejournal as part of the spn_gen_bigbang challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Perspectives~Chapter One~Part One: Blue on Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/118241) by [PhoenixDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon). 



It's an itch between his shoulder blades, like he's being watched or something.

He first feels it while in the barn he and Bobby had prepped as they wait for whatever had pulled him out of Hell to show up. He dismisses it because of course he's tense—he's waiting for whatever pulled him out of Hell to show up. Then he feels it driving back from Olivia Lowry's house, but after seeing what was left of Olivia Lowry, he would've thought himself really fucking sick if he hadn't felt shivery. He feels it again shortly after, at the gas station on the way back to Bobby's, but he figures that it's just Victor haunting the crap out of them, along with Meg and Ronald… Except the feeling doesn't stop when they dispel the Witnesses—that creepy, crawly feeling that says something nasty's waiting just around the next corner—and it's starting to really bug him.

He decides to investigate. He's got the time since the world's being a little quieter and he doesn't sleep much anyway. Besides, if he's being haunted by something _other_ than angels and nightmares, it would be good to know.

Then Castiel shows up and sends him back in time to watch, helplessly, as his mom makes a deal with the yellow-eyed son of a bitch who killed her.

"You can change it," Castiel had said, but it turns out all the angel wanted him to do was to witness the inevitability of it. He's not feeling too happy with the angels or this whole damn set-up, but before he can completely process his mother's little bombshell, Castiel points him to a warehouse with an equally cryptic command to "stop it".

When he gets there, it doesn't take a genius to understand what Dean's supposed to stop.

He watches through the chain-link divider as Sam uses some freaky psychic power tricks to exorcise a demon. Sam's eyes are closed, his hand is raised palm out, and he's got the most serene expression on his face, as if this is as safe as chanting 'ohm' in a monastery. Black, demon smoke pours out of the possessed bastard's mouth, dropping to the floor as if weighted and Dean knows that Sam did that. Standing beside his baby brother is the chick from the hotel in Pontiac, the one Sam had pretended was an anonymous hook-up but obviously isn't from the way she's coaching Sam through it.

He waits until the demon smoke is gone before stepping out into the dim room.

"Anything you want to tell me, Sam?" He looks at the tiny brunette standing so comfortably beside his brother. He already knows who she is, _what_ she is: a fucking lying skank. Before either of them open their mouths, he takes the knife to her, which is the correct thing to do when faced with a demon, but Sam stops him and gets Ruby out of the building, safe.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean shouts at his idiotic brother. "You're working with a _demon_."

"Ruby's not like that." But he can't meet Dean's eyes, not fully and, shit, Dean doesn't need this. His brother was supposed to be _safe_.

"Why, Sam?" he asks trying for stern but knowing his voice is closer to pleading. "What are you hoping to get out of this?" He silently begs Sam to give him something he can understand, something that makes sense.

"You know why," Sam's voice is petulant and resentful and he sounds like a kid instead of a college-educated, experienced hunter.

"I do?"

Sam juts out his jaw and glares. "She's helping me get ready to kill Lilith."

"Kill Lilith," Dean repeats, absolutely stunned by the stupidity. "Why? Revenge?" Sam nods and Dean shakes his head in disbelief. "For sending me to hell? Did you happen to notice I'm back—alive and kicking? Or are you so busy doing your Anakin Skywalker impression that you weren't paying attention?" Low blow, he thinks to himself even as he says it, because it's not all Sam's fault that their rhythm's been off since he… got back.

Before he can soften it, Sam puffs up in anger. "Is it wrong to want a little payback?"

Dean sees the way Sam tightens his jaw and lifts his shoulders, and he knows Sam's not going to listen to anything Dean says now. Not only that, but he's not just his extra-large baby brother caught out in a lie, he's a freaking scary dude filled with dark power and bloodlust. This isn't his brother and he wants his brother, he wants _them_ , back the way they were two years ago, when hunting was fun. He doesn't know how to do that: he's never been good with words.

"You— _we_ —don't need payback, Sammy." Dean tries to keep himself calm but his nerves are jittering: this is so wrong. "This is wrong, all wrong. It's a slippery slope and it'll just get steeper and darker the more you travel on it." How can Sam not see how wrong this is?

Sam's shaking his head. "That is so hypocritical. Dad sold his soul, and you sold yours, all so that you could get revenge for Mom's death. Revenge that changed nothing."

"It wasn't like that." It wasn't. They'd sold their souls to save each other not to continue the quest, although that's exactly what had happened.

"At least I'm being proactive," Sam goes on, his voice cutting. "I'm not going to become some little martyr that everyone has to feel sorry for."

What the fuck? Is that how Sam sees him?

"Don't… It's not like that." Dean can hardly get the words out, his jaw is so tight. "You can't do this."

"Why not, Dean? You'll punch me? Will that make you feel better? Or maybe we should go out and find something you _can_ kill—maybe that'll relieve some of your anger." Sam's all aggressive contempt and Dean can't stop himself in time. He swings, connects, and Sam staggers back, hand going to his chin.

The younger man nods. "That's your free one for lying to you. Next time I hit back." He marches around his older brother. "I'll be at the hotel when you're ready to talk like an adult."

Dean spins around to tackle the little bitch, but Sam is already gone, nothing but the door gliding closed to indicate that he was even there. Dean's left alone and he just wants to scream his helplessness to the sky. Because of Castiel's _Back to the Future_ moment, where Dean had had to watch his mom make a deal with fucking Yellow Eyes, he'd been angry and frustrated even before he'd entered the warehouse. Finding Sam like this did not help.

His brother had promised—fucking _promised_ —not to use those effing powers and here he is exorcising demons with his _mind_ … Jesus fucking Christ. And then he'd defended Ruby— _Ruby!_ Who is not only a demon, but a lying manipulative _bitch_.

Dean has to cool down, has to take a moment before facing Sam because, swear to God, if his brother tries to justify hanging around with Ruby, Dean is going to punch the kid in the face again and that'll do nothing to mend their relationship, which is listing in so much deep, stormy water that Dean can feel it up to his knees. He drives around a bit, finds an empty playground, and pulls the Impala over so he can look at the stars and just… just remember the good things. It's hard, though. He's barely been out of Hell two weeks and everything is going to shit. Angels and Seals and the freaking Apocalypse. And Sam becoming BFF with a lying-ass demon…

It hardly surprises him when he sees the ghost and hears the voice.

"Hey, Dean."

He looks up and sees… himself. Huh, he'd hoped he'd be older when he died. "How long?"

His ghost self makes a considering face. "Four years."

"That's it? I knew this gig was going to be tough but, seriously, four years?"

"We survive the Seals and avert the Apocalypse, if that helps any." His ghost-self flickers just like every other spirit Dean has ever seen.

"So we win?"

Dean isn't surprised when his ghost shrugs. "Not so much, no."

He stares at the remnant of his future self, cataloguing the differences. More lines on his face, but not bad; he hasn't lost an eye or anything hideous. Same taste in clothes, although his boots are steel-toed work boots. Not as cool as not biker boots, but steel-toes actually make sense for a hunter. Iron would be better but Dean doubts anybody makes them: too soft, too heavy. The coat is a lined canvas jacket instead of Dad's old leather. It would've made him look almost respectable if it hadn't been for all the blood and body parts hanging out. He hadn't died in his sleep then.

He looks higher up, notices another big change and frowns, "You're not wearing the medallion."

"Yeah, that's one of the things I need to tell you about." His ghost rolls his lips and Dean recognizes the move as one he makes when he's afraid his suggestion is going to be unwelcome. His stomach tightens and Dean's sure he doesn't want to hear whatever it is his future self has to say. He doesn't want to know why it'll be only four years. Where was Sam? Why didn't his brother have his back? Or, why wouldn't he, in the future?

"If you want to change the future, why come back to now? Why not go back further?" he asks to stall the inevitable. "Maybe keep us out of Hell. I like that idea."

"Tried but the spell is tied to our body and when Cas brought us out he rebuilt it. I mean, _completely_ redone. Like we did to the Impala. The frame's still there and some pieces are original but just about every bit of us, every cell, every atom, was, you know, touched by an angel," Dead Dean says with a smirk and Dean's lips lift in return.

"I imagine it changes a person," he says. He can hear the crickets humming in the field and there's the buzz of the electrical line high overhead. Quiet. Peaceful. Calm. Everything he wants right now.

Four fucking years…

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Yeah, I understand." And Dean supposes that his ghost probably _does_ understand. "However, it's not like I've got a lot of choice here."

"What if nothing you tell me helps me to change anything?" Because it would be just his fucking luck for this trip to the future to be just as pointless as Castiel's trip to the past.

His ghost laughs, an unhappy sound. "Don't worry. We'll just keep doing it until we get it right." It's more like a threat than a reassurance. "But I've got some ideas of things you can do. Lots of things I've said 'if only' about, so if you can do even a couple of them, things will definitely change."

"What if it makes things worse?" Because that's also a possibility.

Dead Dean looks sadly down at his bloody torso. "I don't see how it can be any worse than this."

Point to him, but now Dean's even more sure that he doesn't want to hear this. Yet he'd made arrangements for his spirit to travel back in time to give his younger self a message, which means it's important, which means he doesn't really have a choice… as usual. He sighs, unhappy with all the BS, as his ghost flickers. He—it— _he_ doesn't talk, doesn't shift. It seems he'll learn patience in the future. Or maybe that's something he learned in Hell, because even now, he's a lot more willing to just let the world pass on by without his help or interference.

"I can't stick around forever, man. There _are_ rules."

Or maybe he will always be a pushy bastard.

"Okay, lay it on me."

In an instant, the ghost is close enough that he can see his own freckles, see the lines at the corners of his eyes, deeper and longer than they were before, or are now, he supposes. He can also see trails of blood that leaked from nose and ears and eyes. They're faint and slightly smeared as if someone tried to wipe them away. He hadn't died a quick death if someone had tried to clean him up.

"There's a lot to tell you, so it'd be easier if you'd just let me show you." His ghost raises his hands up, palms out, as if inviting his living self to play patty-cake. "Invite me in, Dean."

This was so not a good idea. "Only if you tell me who wins the Superbowl, too."

His ghost smiles, a rueful lift of the lips. "Done." And it was.

As soon as he touches his dead counterpart, images pour into his mind in a bewildering, compressed stream too fast to process. They push into his brain, which is bad enough, except it isn't just images, it's sounds and sensations, emotions, feelings: pain and love, joy and fear, loss and anger, despair and loneliness. Betrayal. Death…

He's hot. He's cold. He'd be numb except this hurts like sandpaper scraping on his bones.

" _Dean. Damn it. I can't believe I miscalculated this badly."_

When he opens his eyes, he's flat on his back on top of the picnic table and the stars are flashing disco colors and wheeling around the sky in frantic abandon.

"It's all there," Dead Dean says. "Everything you need to know to prevent this." He rubs a hand over the hole in his chest. It makes pain echo in Dean's ribs and he remembers the feeling of claws digging for his heart.

Note to self: silver doesn't work so well on the Alpha Werewolf.

He lifts his hand to cover the non-existent injury as he thinks about what just happened. Dead Dean said he knew everything but Dean doesn't feel like he knows anything. The memories had come at him too big, too fast, too much. His brain feels like soup—the primordial soup where life began: thick, sparky and rather disgusting.

"Take your time, absorb it. You'll figure out pretty quick what needs to be done."

"You can't tell me?" Dean manages to ask.

"I already did, man. It's in there." Dead Dean leans over him anxiously. "You _did_ get the memories, right?"

"Yeah," Dean replies hesitantly. "I think they're just really compacted."

His ghost looks relieved. "You'll get over it," he says. Dead Dean's looking off to the side at something Dean can't see. He takes a step away. "My time's up so, you know, good luck and everything." He takes another step.

"Hey," Dean stops him. "Where… where are you—we—going?"

His ghost is quiet as he thinks about it. Then he shrugs. "As long as it's not Hell, I'm not sure I care anymore."

Dean can understand that. _Those_ memories came through with great clarity and jarred his own, fresher, memories of all the horror they'd both lived through.

"Good-bye, Dean." Dean hardly has time to thank himself before the ghost fades away. He lays there, watching the spinning stars slow and lose their weird colors and waiting for his brain to shrink back to a comfortable size.

He waits a long time.

* * *

  
Sam sits at the table, pretending to read a book, waiting for Dean to come back to the motel. He knows he's going to get blasted, probably punched again, but he's pretty sure he's got his own anger under control this time. Plus he has all his arguments assembled and he's sure, absolutely, positively, that he can make Dean understand. He can make this okay. He knows he can, because one thing Dean understands is that anything that makes the hunt easier is a good thing. So he waits and imagines the confrontation in his head, tries to visualize all of Dean's actions and how he'll respond. He clenches and relaxes his muscles, one body part at a time, trying to keep the tension out. It's a technique they suggested in college to help students survive oral tests and interviews and it's worked for Sam before. It'll work now. He'll be adult and reasonable and Dean will have to listen to him.

Sam tries to believe it, but doesn't really succeed.

But the Dean who walks in two hours later isn't angry or hurt or any of the things Sam had pictured. Actually, his brother looks tired, sad, and a little shell-shocked.

Sam stands up, figuring it's best if he starts the conversation, sets the tone for it. "Let me explain," he begins but Dean holds up his hand.

"Don't bother. You're going to tell me how you're just exorcising demons, how you're saving lives—more than we ever did—how you've got it under control and you're not going to let it go too far."

"I'm not, I wasn't…" But he was. He was going to say all those things, and he can tell by Dean's tone that he's not going to buy any of those reasons. Now Sam's scrambling to jump to the next part of his argument. If he can remember what it was… "You've got to see the other side here."

"What other side?" Dean demands and now his voice holds the anger that Sam expected.

Good, Sam knows what comes next. He looks right at his older brother, looks him right in the eyes. "You were gone. I was here. I had to keep on fighting without you. And what I'm doing… It works."

"And that makes it okay."

It isn't a question, but Sam answers anyway. "It's just a tool. It's an unorthodox one, but how is it different from shotguns loaded with rock salt?"

"If it's so terrific then why'd you lie about it?"

Sam opens his mouth and tries to spit out the explanation he'd put together, but what he wants to say—what he truly feels—is too ugly to voice. He'd lied because this is _his_. Finally, _he_ had the upper hand, and it wasn't something he'd learned from their Dad, or something Dean did first or better, because It Is _His_. And that isn't something he can say to his big brother, the guy who'd raised him and always had his back. Who'd gone to friggin' _Hell_ for him.

But he wants to.

"You can't justify it, can you?" Dean says with a sad laugh. "Because, altruistic bullshit aside, you just like feeling that powerful."

It's the laugh, and maybe the too-accurate guess, but Sam snaps. The anger he's worked so hard to control spills over and fury heats his body, fuels his words. "You want to know why I didn't say anything? It's because of crap like this. The way you talk to me, the way you look at me, like I'm a freak. Or even worse, like I'm an idiot! Like I don't know the difference between right and wrong!"

Dean will punch him for sure now, and then he'll get to hit Dean back like he said he would, and maybe this time the fight will be enough for Dean to finally respect him as an adult, as a hunter in his own right. His fists curl in anticipation. He waits for it.

Except, again, Dean goes off script.

"And listening to a demon is on the 'right' side of the page? Really…" Dean rubs his temple as if he has a headache. He stares at Sam as if looking for a way into his brain. "You do know that she lied to you all last year, about just about everything?"

"She didn't lie."

Dean laughs. "She told you she could save me from Hell. She couldn't. Wouldn't have even if she could have."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, Sam, I do actually." Dean scrubs both hands over his face. "Christ, I need a drink for this. Wanna beer?" Dean asks over his shoulder and his tone is so casual, so… _ordinary_ that Sam says yes automatically even as he's still braced for a knock-down-drag-out brawl.

He is completely confused.

Confused and off balance and the X-Files theme is playing through his head because this is all wrong. They aren't fighting and shouting at each other. And they should be, he knows it, but Dean isn't behaving like Dean and it's beginning to freak him out.

Dean hands him an opened beer and takes a seat at the table, face only half-turned toward his baby brother. "I remember what happened to me in the Pit," he says. "I remember… Everything."

Sam's mouth drops and he falls into the other chair. He stares at his brother who doesn't look at him. As a conversation starter that little tidbit sucks.

"You said you didn't remember. You lied—"

"I didn't at first. Remember, I mean—better that way probably—but it's been coming back." He turns the bottle on the table. All his attention is focused on the circles of condensation it leaves behind. "Tonight, I remembered it all." He snorts out a sad little laugh, "In fucking stereo, no less."

Sam realizes that he doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't need to know details to understand that what happened to Dean in Hell was awful. He's heard the nightmares, watched the drinking. He's also seen the changes in his brother. Dean is weaker because of his experiences, more timid, more fearful, and something that could do that to his cocky big brother had to have been major.

He opens his mouth to stop Dean from saying anything, but the ringing of his cell beats him to it. He answers without thinking, "Sam here."

" _I'll be damned. I was sure this number would be dead by now. It's Travis Johansen. I don't know if you remember me. I was a friend of your father's back in the day."_

Pictures flash in Sam's mind of a day spent fishing off a dock, him and Dean, while Dad and some other dude swapped stories and prepared to hunt something in the wood. Dad's friend had pan-fried the fish they'd caught. Butter and herbs over a wood fire, and it had tasted wonderful. It had been Travis who'd introduced them to s'mores because their dad either hadn't known or hadn't wanted to spend the money.

"Hey, Travis. Yeah, hey," he answers awkwardly, because even s'mores can't make this a good time for a phone call.

Except that it might actually be the perfect time…

" _It's good to hear your voice, Sam."_

"It's good to hear your voice too. Yeah, um… Look, it's not a really good time right now," he forces himself to say, "It's—"

"Whatever he wants, just tell him no, Sammy," Dean says and Sam fights not to stiffen at the pet name.

" _I need your help, Sam—yours and your brother's. I've got a man-eater down here that needs taking care of and only one good arm to do it with. It's important, or I wouldn't have called. You know that."_

"Yeah, I know," he doesn't let himself feel relieved; it would almost be a betrayal of Dean. "Just give me the details…"

"I'm telling you, Sam, we don't want to do this one."

Sam barely looks up at Dean. Instead he writes down the information that Travis gives him, concentrating on that and not on the feeling of merciful escape running through his brain. "Carthage, Missouri. Jack Montgomery."

"Jesus fuck," Dean mutters in the background. "Doing it just to spite me." But Dean's a hunter too, so he finishes his beer, tossing the empty into the trash, and moves to the beds to begin packing up their stuff. As usual, it doesn't take long for them to be ready for the road. They've had lots of practice, after all.

Sam's half looking forward to, and half dreading, the drive down to Missouri. He and Dean would be hunting; a good old-fashioned hunt they could maybe use to reconnect and he might even be able to show Dean just how useful his psychic stuff is. On the other hand he's going to be stuck in a car with Dean for hours with no escape from his older brother's know-it-all bad-temperedness.

He braces for the explosion as he sits in the passenger seat, but Dean says nothing. He's tense as Dean starts up the car and they drive away from the motel, but Dean still says nothing. He doesn't relax as they hit the highway, and he can't unclench his jaw even as Dean turns on the stereo and lets guitars fill the space between them. He stares out at the flat November farm lands, waiting, but there's no fight, no verbal digs, no passive-aggressive comments about brother knowing best. Dean should be snarky and bitchy, but he's not. He's quiet and thoughtful and he has that little line between his brows that means what he's thinking isn't happy. And he keeps looking at Sam as if _Sam's_ the weird one… or as if he's judging whether or not he can trust Sam. It's a thought that causes a spear of pain in Sam's chest every time it pops into his brain.

It's all fucking wrong and Sam doesn't know how to fix it.

It isn't until they hit the state line and exhaustion hits him like a freight train that Sam finally lets go. It helps that twenty hours without rest hasn't left him a choice.

* * *

  
"Whatimezit?"

"Nearly nine. You wanna stop for breakfast?" Dean says easily. Sam's stomach growls in answer. "Food it is."

He can sense Sam staring at him like he's a pod person and that's okay. His ghost's memories came at him so fast it was like listening to a cassette on fast-forward. Worse. It had recorded into his brain on fast-forward too so he's had to spend the last five hours examining and organizing all the new shit he's learned—though he's sure he's missing bits. All-in-all, he's kind of _feeling_ like a pod person: a fat, over-ripe pod that only needs one hard push to burst open. Then everything would spew out of him, leaving nothing behind but an ugly husk…which is a horrific image to have in his head when he's just suggested stopping for breakfast.

Still, he has a worse thought squatting in the back of his brain like a cancer: Sammy's going to kill him.

Oh, he won't be holding the knife, won't beat him to death or anything, although he apparently came close a couple times. No, Sam just won't care. He'll have a need for bait and Dean makes good bait. It'll never occur to Sam, like it had occurred to the Dean of the future, that it had been luck that had allowed him to survive the first couple times, rather than skill.

But Sam held the knife when he killed Bobby though.

Or would, because it was the only way his rescued-from-Hell brother could lock out his soul, and Dean—Dead Dean the idiot—stuck by him, hoping that Sam would magically revert to being his old, hyper-emotional, selfless self.

It hasn't happened yet, though, which means Soulless Sam and Dead Dean are just waiting in the future if Dean can't figure something out now. Which he has… probably. Possibly.

He's got a point to start with, thanks to Dead Dean, and the beginnings of a plan. It's maybe not a good plan, probably still not going to give him a happily-ever-after ending, and Sam'll be pissed, but it'll be better than sitting with his thumb up his ass, or beating his head over his brother's stubbornness. One thing five hours of thought has reminded him: once Sam makes up his mind it's damn near impossible to get him to change it. It's how his brother got to Palo Alto, after all. He just made up his mind and damn everything and everyone that got in his way. This looks to be the same kind of situation. Except, in his own way, Dean's just as stubborn as his baby brother. He's got a job to do—fix things—and a starting point—save Sam—and failure's not an option.

He wishes that thought was more comforting.

First step: Make his brother see reason about the skeevy, lying-ass, witch demon. Yippee.

"Why do you trust Ruby so much?" he says in what he hopes is a neutral voice. "I mean, you were barely okay with her last year, but I come back and she's your new BFF. How'd that happen?"

"I told you," Sam replies. "You were gone and she was here. She's helping me go after Lilith."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Thanks for the thumbnail, Sam. Real vivid. You want to fill in a little detail?"

"I already explained it," Sam grinds out and Dean knows he doesn't want to tell him, doesn't want Dean to know how deep he's already slid.

"I'm not trying to pick a fight here," he says, keeping his tone even and reasonable. "I really want to understand, but I need to know more. I mean, why the about-face?" He falls silent and waits. Sam wants him to understand, to approve even, he always does, and he'll realize that Dean can't do that if he doesn't explain, so… all Dean needs to do is wait.

One mile… three… ten… He fucking hates waiting. Finally, Sam sighs.

"Because… she saved my life." Sam starts, and for the next twenty minutes Sam tells him about drinking too much, fighting too much. About going to a crossroads and trying to make a deal of his own only to be refused. About coming back to his hotel room, still drunk, and being ambushed by demons one of whom was Ruby, and how Ruby stabbed the other demon with her knife and saved him.

"It was a set-up." Dean says it before he can stop himself, breaking their fragile truce.

"What?" Sam looks at him in shock.

Dean wants to smack himself. He'd been doing so well at keeping his mouth shut and just listening. However, now that he's said part of it, he might as well go whole hog. "Ruby killing the demon with her," Dean repeats. "It was a set-up. He was sacrificed so that you'd trust her. It was the only way you would let her back into your life and they knew that."

Sam huffs. "Ruby's not part of any demon plot, Dean."

He nearly rolls his eyes because, seriously? Sam may have been to college, but he's still so friggin' naive at times, it's scary.

"How did she get out of Hell then?" Dean asks. "She doesn't have the muscle to get out on her own. I mean, _Meg_ could kick her ass to Antarctica without breaking a sweat. And back in New Harmony? Lilith could've obliterated her with a thought but she didn't. Therefore, Ruby was protected and the only reason they'd do that is if she was right where they wanted her to be."

"You're wrong."

Dean waits for more, waits for his law school brother to provide additional arguments and evidence to back up his statement. There aren't any.

"That's it? Just a flat 'you're wrong' and nothing?" He pauses, waits for something… anything. Sam just stares out the window. Dean sighs. This is going _so_ well…

"She's poison, Sam. You gotta know that." Still nothing. "You're lying to yourself if you thi—"

"God! Stop bossing me around Dean. Stop telling me what to think!" Sam finally explodes, staring at him and leaning forward aggressively. "Look. My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots, and I trust you because you're my brother. Now I'm asking you, for once, trust me."

Dean looks at his brother, so full of passion just as he's always been. Still wanting the happy ending that life hasn't given him yet. He smiles because… Well, just because. "I wish I could, little brother," he responds. "But I can't as long as you're taking advice from Ruby. She's kind of a deal-breaker."

Sam frowns, sitting back once again. "What the hell does that mean?" he demands.

"It means that one day you'll have to choose between me and her, Sammy," Dean answers. "And then we'll all have to live with the consequences." Some of us not for long, though, he thinks. Only four years…

Sam's glowering at him and Dean can't blame him. If _he'd_ been given an ultimatum like the one he'd just given Sam, he'd be angry and resentful too.

He can't help it; he smiles because, yeah, nothing like monster killing mixed with familial angst to make him feel right at home. "You still think this hunt is a good idea?"

And Sam has to smile back because he gets it too.


	2. Chapter 2

It's noon when they get to the motel where Travis is waiting for them, beer in hand. The old hunter gets up from the table and gives them each a hug. It strikes Sam that Travis is old—and _short_ —but it has been over ten years since they saw him and Sam grew a lot after his sixteenth birthday. Other than that, Travis looks like he remembers: plaid shirt, insulated vest, old jeans. Like just about every hunter Sam's ever met.

They exchange chit-chat, mostly comments on the changes ten years has wrought, before Travis offers them beer but Dean says "no" and "long night" and gets the coffee going instead, and if Sam weren't already spooked he wouldn't find it weird because Dean just drove nearly twelve hours to get them here after being up for at least another dozen. But he is spooked and it does seem weird.

Aside from that one stretch before breakfast, they hadn't fought. Dean hadn't mentioned Ruby and Sam hadn't mentioned Hell and it was all calm and so friggin' _civilized_.

He'd tried to talk about what kind of creature Travis had found but Dean had just said "huh?" in a blank tone. Then Dean had muttered something that sounded like 'roogru' and Sam had given up. Dean's mind hadn't been there, which wasn't unusual in itself. Long road trips often had a mesmerizing effect on his older brother, but it had left Sam wondering what the hell was going on. They'd been arguing and Dean didn't usually give up until Sam surrendered and admitted that he'd been wrong and Dean was right. Not this time. This time Dean had just grunted and asked for the sunglasses. He'd driven all the way from Mexico, Missouri to Carthage, with his arm on the door resting his head on it as if he had a headache, but Dean never had headaches—or never admitted to them, at least.

Now, Dean's turning down free beer and showing this hunt all the enthusiasm of a French chef for canned spaghetti and Sam's thinking of using a silver knife in case Dean's a shapeshifter again. He feels like he's being split, like one of those movies where one thing happens on the right side of the screen, and something else is happening on the left, and it's impossible to keep track of both.

Then Travis' words bring him back to the present. "What did you call it?"

"A rugaru," Travis repeats.

Sam stares at him, then at Dean. No way Dean could've known. "That's made up. He's making that up, right?"

Dean just shrugs and lets Travis fill in the details. "They start out human, for all intents and purposes, but they turn ugly real fast. First sign is when they get hungry."

"Hungry for what?"

"At first for everything, but then… for long pig."

Sam swallows back his nausea. He looks at his brother. "That means—"

"I know what it means, Sam," Dean says. He takes a sip of his coffee, frowning, and Sam knows that he's debating something with himself. Sam can't imagine what it could be since this seems like a pretty straightforward case. He looks at Travis and the old hunter is looking at him questioningly. Sam shrugs. He doesn't know what's going on with Dean either.

Finally his brother sighs and speaks, "I've heard that if they don't take that first bite then they never switch over: never become a monster."

Again, Sam can't help staring at his brother because seriously, what the fuck? "When did you hear—" he starts to ask but Travis' drowns him out. "My thirty years of experience not good enough for you?"

Dean shrugs, looking unconcerned, "I'm just saying that if the only tool you have is a hammer then every problem looks like a nail." He sips his coffee, slurping it, which means he's not as calm as he's trying to project. Sam's eyes narrow: what the hell is Dean hiding?

"What does that mean?" Travis demands.

Dean shrugs again before responding. "It means we're hunters. We see something supernatural and we kill it. Simple, clean… easy." Travis shrugs as if to say 'so?'

"It may not always be right," Dean goes on. "It may not even be the best solution."

Okay, Sam thinks, where the hell is my brother? "Aren't you the guy who said, just a couple years ago, 'if it's supernatural we kill it'?"

Dean looks back at him, "And you're the one who said we hunt evil. So far, right now, Jack Montgomery isn't evil. The man wears a cell phone, for God's sake."

It's true, Sam used to believe that. It hasn't seemed as important lately, but the weirdness of hearing his hunt-happy brother spouting it as a philosophy has Sam trying to figure out Dean's underlying logic. "So you're saying… if he never eats human flesh, he won't fully transform so he won't become an evil monster we need to kill?"

"Go vegan, stay human," Dean wiggles his brows, inviting his brother to share the humour. Sam easily refrains, but he can't so easily dismiss the fact that Dean is right. If the guy's not evil, then he doesn't deserve to die.

Travis is already shaking his head. He stands and his posture is aggressive and tense. "So what do we do? Sit and hope and wait for a body count? Fact is every rugaru I ever saw or heard of took that bite."

Sam turns to Travis. "If there's a chance—" Travis snorts dismissively and Sam clenches his jaw. "If there's a chance," he repeats, "I say we talk to him, explain what's happening. That way he can fight it."

This time, Travis out-and-out laughs. "I'm sorry, boys. I'm sure he's a stand-up guy, but it's pure, base instinct. Everything in nature has gotta eat. You think he can stop himself 'cause he's nice?"

"I don't know," Sam's voice is firm and calm, "but Dean's right. We can't kill him unless he does something to get killed for or else we're no better than the things we hunt." Travis is glaring at him but Sam refuses to back down. He's a hunter too, Goddamn it, a good one. His opinion deserves the same kind of respect as Travis' does, or Dean's…or Dad's.

Dean pushes away from the counter, dumping the last of his coffee down the sink. "Either way, none of us are hunting anything until we get some decent shut-eye. Six hours isn't going to make any difference to Jack but it'll sure help my brain feel better."

Travis turns his sneer on the older Winchester, "What's the matter, boy? Feeling old?"

Dean's answering chuckle is bittersweet. "Only by about a half-century or so."

"Okay," Sam breaks in. "We'll meet up again at seven, grab something to eat, and plan our next move."

"If he turns while you are getting your beauty sleep then I am going to kick your asses to China," Travis growls and Sam has no doubt the old hunter would do it—or maybe something worse. "One bite's all it takes, and our man Jack's headed there on a bullet train so if someone dies then it'll be on you." He stabs his finger at them. Sam doesn't do anything but Dean nods, as always willing to accept the responsibility for other people's lives . Then Travis wheels out the door, slamming it hard behind him.

"Dibs on the shower," Dean says as if nothing happened.

"What the hell was that, Dean?" Sam's question stops the guy from disappearing into the bathroom. "When did you become all Mother Teresa?"

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." His brother rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Travis wasn't going to listen so it was stupid to bring it up."

"That's not exactly what I'm asking, Dean. When did you become all live-and-let-live?" Dean is quiet, thoughtful. He looks away and Sam can see the underlying all-over stress his brother's carrying, but he doesn't back down. He wants an answer and he's got six hours to get one.

Eventually, Dean gives this little half shrug. "I saw so many awful things downstairs…" he starts and Sam braces himself for whatever tale his brother's going to tell. "Maybe I just don't want to add the image of Jack Montgomery being burned alive to all the rest."

"Burned alive?" Sam swallows.

Dean's expression is rueful. "Ten bucks says it's going to be fire."

"No bet," Sam responds. He watches mutely as Dean goes in to take his shower. Burned alive… What a horrible fucking way to go.

* * *

  
It goes down almost exactly the way Dean said it would. They meet Travis for dinner and he agrees to let them talk to Jack, but a couple hours later they can't find him at the motel. They race over to the Montgomery's but they're too late. Travis has been eaten, not even bone fragments left. They kill the creature Jack's become with fire and rescue the screaming wife. Turns out Travis was threatening her because she was pregnant—threatening her right in front of Jack, the idiot. It's no wonder the guy hulked out.

So Travis is dead, Jack is dead, and the wife is hysterical.

She clings to Dean and cries on his shoulder. Dean should've looked awkward and uncomfortable like he always does with emotional females, but Dean's weirdly okay with it. He's not supposed to be okay with it because Dean's never good with victims unless they're, like, four-years old. He always leaves the emotional aftermath to Sam to clean up, but not this time. This time, he's just holding Michelle, making soothing sounds, and letting her get it all out of her system.

Sam stares at him and silently goes to the store for more Kleenex.

It takes them all night, but they manage to calm Michelle down and explain to her what her husband had been, what their child could be. Amazingly, she doesn't call them nuts.

"After what I _saw_?" she says with a disbelieving hiccup. "Jack was a good man," she says. It's not the first time she's said it, and Dean, like he has the hundreds of times before, agrees with her. Jack had been a good man, could've maybe continued to be a good man if only…

For the whole six hours it takes for Michelle Montgomery's parents to arrive, Sam looks at this man, his brother, who he's known so well for so long, seen in all sorts of fucked-up situations, and watches him be so fucking _understanding_.

Once again he thinks about bringing out the silver knife.

"Let's go to Memphis," Dean says after they wave a final good-bye to Jack's widow. "We should see Graceland at least once before we die… again."

Memphis is close to Carthage and Sam can't find any news that would point them in the direction of the next falling Seal, so he shrugs agreement. He needs some time to adjust and Memphis makes as much sense as anywhere else. It won't be for long, he thinks.

* * *

  
Five days later, they're still in Memphis touring Graceland. It's jaw-droppingly awful and yet somehow awesome at the same time. "And I thought demons had bad taste," Dean says in the middle of the billiard room. "You think that Colonel Parker might've been a demon, Sam? That would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

In a weird way, it's almost like Dean's finding excuses to stay in Memphis. They'd already checked out _two_ haunted cemeteries, one potential cursed object, but done nothing about anything. Now, they're spending the day at Graceland. What's next, Sam wonders, the Grand Ole Opry?

"Dude, Apocalypse? Sixty-six seals?" he protests when Dean suggests a tour on a Mississippi riverboat. "Any of these ringing a bell?"

Dean smiles crookedly. "It's not like they can do anything without us," he says in response.

It's a frigging bizarre thing to say and Sam's just about to call him on it, but there's a glint in his brother's eyes that dares Sam to ask. So he doesn't. Even as he kicks himself for being a coward and an idiot, Sam doesn't ask. Instead he finds a line on a possible werewolf hunt in Pennsylvania, with a furry wolfman and everything, and tries to convince his brother that it's just the kind of hunt they need to get their rhythm back; a nice, simple, black-and-white hunt. Instead, Dean suggests a visit to Ernestine and Hazel's bar where they can maybe see ghosts of long-dead hookers.

Sam stares at his brother. "You go," he says, but he knows Dean won't go by himself.

The only thing the same about Dean is the nightmares, the restless shifting and soft whimpering, the almost-silent crying. It drives Sam nuts having to listen to it, knowing there's nothing he can do to help except let his brother talk about Hell and Sam isn't ready to hear about it yet. He's realized he might never be ready. It has to have been awful and the more he tries not to imagine what happened to his brother, the nastier his imaginings become until _he's_ the one trying to drink himself into a stupor at night.

The thought pounds in his brain that Lilith did this. Lilith sent Dean to Hell to be tortured and warped. And Lilith is still out there, scheming and living and enjoying herself.

He phones Ruby while Dean's lined up at a shack selling Pulled Pork BBQ, a Memphis specialty and pretty damn good too, Sam's forced to admit.

"Hey, Sammy," she says in greeting and Sam grits his teeth at the diminutive. "What's up?"

"Can you meet me in Memphis?"

She laughs. "Is that a song or something?" Sam growls and she backs down. "Yeah, sure, you know I can. When and where?"

He just has time to tell her the name of their motel before Dean's sauntering back with their hoagies. Green eyes slip down, tracking Sam's hasty cell phone drop, sculpted brows dip in a small frown, but Dean says nothing, just hands over the sandwich.

"So I'm thinking tomorrow we should hit Sun Studio. I could use some new Johnny Cash."

Sam looks at him in resignation. "There is no new Johnny Cash, Dean. The man's _dead_."

Dean shrugs, "Whatever. Never seems to stop us."

* * *

  
Sam waits until Dean is snoring lightly, more passed out from too much booze than sleeping the rest of the just, but it's enough to get him out the door unnoticed. Ruby's waiting in her Mustang and Sam levers himself into the passenger side. They don't say anything: nothing much to say. This isn't a romance. They're not friends. They're allies fighting a common enemy. Not that there are any demons in Memphis to fight right now, but Ruby likes him to be prepared, to be safe, and he doesn't like to be weak.

What they do… he knows it's not the proper thing, not… not right, but it's the best he can do given the circumstances. And if his conscience nudges at him and tries to tell him that he's not hunting alone anymore so there's no need to use Ruby, he's had lots of practice ignoring that voice. It's the same voice he heard at Stanford, the one that used to tell him pick up the damn phone and call his brother already. He swallows a sigh and shifts in his seat and tries not to think of this as a betrayal of his brother.

"Dean says you have a hidden agenda." The words pop out of his mouth before he can censor them. "He doesn't trust you."

Ruby looks at him, dark eyes large and shuttered. "Yeah, well… your brother's never been a fan of mine." She's unconcerned, as she is about a lot of things.

"He says that you lied to me before and you're lying to me now," Sam drags it out and puts it between them.

Ruby puts on her turn signal and pulls over to the sidewalk. "We don't have to do this, Sam. It's your choice, always. I promised you that." She had, back at the beginning. "So if you want to run back to your big brother and trust him to take care of this," meaning the Seals, Lilith, everything, "I'll drive away right now and you can go back to the way it was. No hard feelings."

"I'm not a little kid," he grinds out.

"I know that." She smirks and glances down at his lap. "Man, do I know that."

"Ruby…"

"I'm just saying." He shifts uncomfortably on the seat, not liking the reminder of where nights like these usually end up. Her smile widens, "Most guys would brag."

He's ready to snap at her but she's got such a playful look on her face, like being here with him makes her happy, that Sam's anger drains away. "I'm not most guys," he says mildly and her smile softens in response.

"I know that too." And she does. She's always treated him not as John's son or Dean's brother, but as Sam, a hunter in his own right. "So what's it going to be, Sam? I can take you back," her voice trails off.

He should go back. His logical mind knows that trusting a demon, even one as harmless as Ruby, is probably a bad idea but, _fuck_ _!_ Ever since he found out he had demon blood in him, he's felt like it was a disease pumping through his veins. He can't scrub it out or drain it, so what he does with Ruby, what he's learning how to do? He's doing to try and take this… this _curse_ and make something good out of it. For the first time since the visions started, for the first time since he learned what had been done to him in his crib, he doesn't feel like the demon blood that taints him is completely evil. He wishes Dean could understand that he's stronger, more in control, and he's gotten closer to catching Lilith than he ever would have done on his own.

Besides, it's not like he thinks Ruby has only good intentions, or is a truly good person, but neither is she evil. She's never done anything like what they saw Meg do, or Azazel, or even Ava back in Cold Oak.

It's that realization that tips the scales.

He can do this, he thinks. He can walk this tightrope and prove to Dean he knows what he's doing. He'll just be extra-vigilant with Ruby, try to dig more information out of her. He'll use her just as he planned when this started. Less partner, more tool. He keeps his face turned away so she can't see the calculation going on in his eyes.

"Nah. We're good." He nods confirming his decision to himself. "It's all good." Ruby's nod is carefully lacking in emotion: no relief, no triumph, and no 'I told you so'. Nothing to make him change his mind.

They're both being so cautious with each other that they don't notice the car following them.

* * *

  
Dean watches as Ruby's car pulls into the parking lot of a motel. He pulls in to bar next door and waits. The hex bag worked perfectly; she didn't even look over her shoulder. Or maybe she was just so anxious to get Sam behind closed doors, to convince him that turning into a blood-sucking monster was perfectly justifiable, to even suspect tonight would be different. Or maybe she's so sure of her hold on his brother that the idea of Dean following them doesn't bother her. She always was arrogant. Of course, what he can remember of Dead Dean's history proves she was right to be so self-assured: she laid down the trail and Sam followed along like a well-trained hound.

He can't believe it took Sam so long to phone the bitch.

He pulls out the knife—Ruby's special demon-killing knife. He'd lifted it from Sam days ago. Although it was more a matter of sharpening it and never giving it back. He remembers killing her. He remembers the knife sliding in and the demon inside her flashing and dying. He'd felt no joy then, since it had happened too late to change anything, this time however? This time, he's looking forward to it. A lot.

He knows he should deplore the corruption inside himself—Alistair's Apprentice come to life—but he's sure-as-shit going to enjoy this.

He waits for half an hour, making sure the narrow walkway between bar and motel is little used, before he gets out of the Impala and goes to stand there to wait some more. Ruby will have to walk right across it in order to get to her car yet it's close enough to the room that she should still be a little night-blind.

He stands casually—just a guy trying to clear his head after one round too many—until he sees the light spill from the opening door. It's Sam. Dean eases back, letting him go by before pulling the knife. His brother looks buzzed, full of energy and unnaturally alert. It's the way Sam looked in one of his future memories, before he went off to confront Lucifer and it reminds Dean of cokeheads after a hit. Especially the way Sam bounces past him, completely oblivious.

Dean almost rolls his eyes in disgust; you'd think being pumped full of demon's blood would've made him _more_ aware.

The light shuts off. He hears the clicking of a door latch, the soft footfall. Even those sound cocky to Dean. She's halfway past him before she looks to the side and by then it's too late. The knife is sinking in deep. He angles it upwards, automatically looking for liver or lungs, and turns it a bit to make it easier to pull out after. He waits until she stops flashing under her borrowed skin then he lets her drop, nodding in satisfaction.

The bad guys are down one MVP, perhaps even the game winner, because it took Ruby over a year, a fake sacrifice, and Dean's death for her to worm her way into Sam's circle of trust and there's no way another demon will get that close again… probably.

"Dean!"

Ah, crap. Inevitable, but still, crap.

He puts up his hands. because he gets that Sam is pissed. He even understands why. By killing Ruby, Dean's just proven how little he trusts his brother's judgment, so Dean knows Sam's going to hit him and it's going to hurt, but he deserves it.

Sorta… maybe.

"Let me explain—" he begins but Sam doesn't even hear him. He grabs the knife from Dean's hand and Dean lets him. He doesn't even back away when Sam crowds into him.

"What the hell? What do you think you're doing?" Sam pupils are blown wide and his breath is freshly minty from the scrubbing his brother had done to cover up the ash and copper scent that would've been left behind. His brother… drinking demon's blood…

Now Dean's feeling pissed off which is why his response comes out a little more cutting than he'd originally planned. "I don't know, Sam. Doing my job maybe. Y'know, saving the planet, saving you."

"I didn't ask you to," Sam growls. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah, actually. Better than you." Dean's forgotten the first rule of dealing with people who are fucked up: they generally aren't rational.

"Interfering, self-righteous, _smug_ bastard! You just fucked everything up!" Sam shouts and Dean feels the knife slide into his own guts.

The second rule is that they have shitty impulse control.

"Jesus, Sammy," he whispers. He grabs Sam's hand, keeping the knife in, trying to contain the bleeding. From experience he knows that the location of their hands indicates a possible hit to his kidneys or his liver, maybe his spleen… His intestines might be perforated as well.

He's fucked, in other words.

He sees the comprehension come back into Sam's face, sees him realize what he's done. There's remorse, sure, but there's also anger and resentment still bubbling near the surface. "Dean?" he asks, sounding unsure and a little suspicious. As if Dean's faking having a knife stuck in him.

"I'm thinking a hospital would be a good idea," he suggests. "Unless you want to finish the job?" The sad thing is, looking at his brother's face, Dean knows Sam not really sure what he wants. He does know how Sam's going to respond however.

"Jesus Christ, Dean. Of course I don't want to… I don't want you to _die_."

Exactly what Dean thought he'd say.

"Keys, right pocket," Dean says. "It's two rows in, 'bout four cars up. I'm just going to stay here."

Sam's finally looking panicked. He lets the knife go in order to dig his hands through his hair. Dean tightens his grip to keep it from falling out. He tries not to flinch when his brother digs into his coat pocket but Sam has to know that every movement jars the knife buried inside him and that it hurts like a son of a bitch. Or maybe not, considering that Sam's eyes are still blown. At least his baby brother is scrubbed and polished. He doesn't look like a junkie at all. Nothing for hospital security to be suspicious about. Except for having stabbed his brother. Kinda hard to explain that one away.

When Sam leaves him to look for the car, Dean decides that this 'give me a bullet to bite on' machismo crap isn't for him at the moment.

First he leans himself against the nearest wall, then he kinda slides down a little, like until his knees touch cement. He should probably lie down, he thinks, try to get the wound above his heart, but getting back up would be a bitch. He'll just stay here and hope that he's done, that it's over. One demon bitch down, one Lilith-killing tool and vessel for Lucifer out of the picture so Apocalypse averted—lots and friggin' lots of deaths averted including theirs. Even though the son of a bitch freakin' _stabbed_ him, he's still going to put this in the 'win' column.

He kneels there, feeling the warm liquid seeping out from around the blade in his gut. Sam had stabbed him, over a _demon_.

This was _so_ not a win…


	3. Chapter 3

He'd just stabbed his brother.

So what if Dean had killed Ruby, killed his only chance at getting some payback, he'd just _stabbed_ his _brother…_

All he can think is 'holy shit' and 'this is _so_ bad', his mind skittering in aimless panic as he searches for the Impala. Under the panic is the anger but he barely notices it; he's used to being angry. He even knows that his temper is worse after a session with Ruby—who's dead, freaking _dead_ —but he figures that's part of the whole guilt thing. Guilt… Jesus effing Christ! His mind slams to a halt. Dean could die because of him… again.

This is _so_ bad.

In his panic, he can hardly see and all the cars look black, and all the trucks are too big and in the way, blocking his view. What did Dean say: four rows over and two cars up? There aren't four rows and while he's standing here, tearing his hair out, Dean is bleeding.

' _Chill the fuck down, Winchester.'_ It's Brady's voice, from first year finals, when Sam was panicking about having lost some textbook or other. "That's what libraries are for." His friend's dryly sarcastic common sense had worked and Sam had calmed down enough to remember where he'd left the book.

It works here, too. He finds the Impala two rows over and four cars up, just as Dean had said. His hand trembles only lightly as he opens the door and starts her up. For some reason the familiar rumble of the Chevy's engine soothes Sam even more, so that he can finally begin to think logically. He has to take Dean to a hospital, no question about that. He remembers where the closest one is for which they have insurance, fake insurance but whatever, so that's not a problem. It's a problem that his brother's been stabbed— _he_ stabbed Dean—so the staff might have to call the cops, which means they need a cover story.

He pulls the Impala as close to his brother as he can. He gets out on autopilot and spreads a blanket on the back seat to soak up at least some of the blood. Dean will kill him if the seats get stained. If he survives.

Holy shit! Holy motherfucking shit…

It's fairly dim in the walkway between the motel and the bar, but Sam can see that Dean is really, really pale. Blood loss, his mind supplies, plus signs of shock. Well, _duh_.

"I'm here, Dean," he says out loud and Dean's lashes flutter. "I've gotcha."

His hands are shaking as he reaches out for his brother but they steady as he lifts. They're firm as he guides his brother's steps. No matter what his mind is doing, his body has been here before—helping an injured family member into the back seat. Poltergeists, demons, and rawheads: lots of monsters have all had a go at killing one or other of the Winchesters.

This time he's the monster.

Shitshitshit. _Shit_.

He peels off his button-up, crumbles it into a wad, and makes sure Dean presses it to the wound. "Keep pressure on that."

Dean's eyelids barely open. "I know the drill." Sam pats his legs and Dean obediently pulls them into the back seat so that Sam can close the door. Sam's panting and his vision is going weird. Demon blood or panic, he wonders. Then decides he doesn't frigging _care_. He just needs to calm down and get Dean to the hospital. He can freak out later.

"In for three, hold, out for three," Dean's voice is soft from the back seat. The rhythm is the one they'd learned as kids to control their bodies' adrenaline-fuelled responses. It's humiliating to realize he needs the reminder.

"Okay, I'm good," he nods and turns the key. "I'm good. You're okay back there?" He pulls out carefully, trying not to jar his brother.

"Just peachy," Dean answers. He gives a coughing laugh. "And people think I'm the one with anger issues."

"That's not funny, Dean," Sam scowls even as his grip tightens on the wheel.

"A lot of it is the demon blood," Dean continues as if he didn't hear him. Who knows, maybe he didn't. "Demons aren't pacifists, after all."

Sam's brain catches on to what Dean just said. "What do you mean 'the demon blood'?" Sam's sure he's never told Dean about that. Not about Yellow Eyes in his nursery the night Mom died, and certainly not about Ruby.

"Lucifer's True Vessel if you drink enough of it. Even then y'need gallons a day to hold'm and you'll still break down over time. Poor Nick," Dean adds softly.

"What do you mean 'true vessel'?" Sam's starting to panic again, this time from confusion. "What the hell, Dean?"

"' _And it's written that the firs' demon shall be the las' seal'."_ Now Dean sounds almost like he's narrating a dream and it makes a shiver crawl down Sam's spine. "Once Lucy's out he'll need a meat suit, jus' like any other angel, an' you're their number one choice. You got Azazel's blood an' survived the grudge match in Cold Oak. All they gotta do is getcha to say yes… and trick you inta drinking demon's blood like coffee." He laughs as if nothing is funny.

Sam palms are getting sweaty, because Dean's seriously channeling. Or maybe he'd learned this stuff in Hell. Maybe this is what Sam wouldn't let Dean talk about because Sam was being selfish and didn't want to know, didn't want to be derailed from his quest. Sam was a bastard, a selfish bastard.

And a hypocrite, because he was always going at Dean, trying to get him to talk through shit, but when _Dean_ wanted to talk, Sam had run.

He looks in the mirror and Dean's eyes have closed. Not good. "What do you mean 'the first demon is the last seal'?" he asks in a panic. He needs Dean to stay awake and alive.

"Your geek's failin', Sam," Dean chuckles, soft and pain-filled. "Lilith was the firs' demon ever. When you killed her, it opened the door t' his cage. Served up on a platter like a nice juicy steak. Ruby never tol' you that, did she?"

"She didn't know." His defense is perfunctory, automatic.

Dean gives another pain-filled laugh but this one is sharper, uglier. "Trust me, Sammy, she knew. She had plans to be your Queen-B once you were Lucy and not, y'know, _you_. But it's not gonna happen now. I saved you, Sammy."

By the end his voice is nothing but a mumble, but Sam still hears him and he can't stop the flare of rage that ignites in him. What is he, _seven?_ That he needs his big brother to rescue him? No, he's twenty-five fucking years old and able to take care of himself… and thoughts like that really aren't helping. He accelerates away from the stop sign with smooth precision.

Time to change the subject.

"When we get to the hospital, we need to have a cover story." He looks in the rear view; Dean's eyes are closed. "Are you listening?" When they flutter open Sam continues. "We, actually _you_ , saw a scuffle. A guy attacking a girl. You went up to play hero, got yourself stabbed. Guy took off. Got that? We were coming out of the bar, right? That makes sense, right? You'll be able to remember it?"

"Nadda total idiot, Sam," Dean mumbles.

"Some parts are missing?" It's their ritual put-down, left over from when they were both too young to shave. Saying it is a knee-jerk reaction and Sam winces at how juvenile he sounds, but Dean laughs, a genuine laugh like Sam hasn't heard from his brother since he got out of the Pit. Suddenly he's just happy that Dean is back, but it's such a switch from the rage he'd been feeling moments before that he feels like he's on a roller coaster with his stomach hanging out in his mouth and all the blood being forced from his legs. It feels both wonderful and sickening because Dean is passed out in the back seat of the Impala with a knife sticking out of him and he just might die and Sam did that.

They get to the hospital and Sam remembers to take the knife out before wheeling his brother into the Emergency Room. They can't afford to lose the weapon to some police evidence room, plus Ruby's fictional attacker was supposed to have taken off with it. No matter the logic, Sam's stomach still lurches at the soft, slurpy, sucking noises it makes when he pulls it out of his brother.

Who he stabbed.

He puts the regrets aside to focus on what he needs to get done: he needs to get Dean admitted and treated, that's number one. That's as easy as walking in the door carrying his blood-soaked body and letting him drip on the floor. Sam follows as they wheel Dean away—practically running him down the corridor actually—and he wonders if he should phone Bobby but decides not to. What the hell would he say?

He's been in waiting rooms like this one before, too—another familiar environment, but one that he never enjoys. He needs coffee… or maybe water would be better. His skin itches—too much emotion, too little time—and he scrubs his hands over his face and down his arms. Then he realizes that someone's going to peg him for a junkie if he keeps that up. He glances around furtively but nobody's watching. The staff is all busy elsewhere and no one else is waiting for a critically injured family member to get out of surgery. He's alone…

He should probably call Bobby… Clean the car, something… Other than stand here… feeling helpless

His feet don't move.

* * *

  
The morning of day two in ICU is spent much the same way as the whole of day one: Dean sleeps.

He sleeps the sleep of the heavily drugged and enjoys the obliviousness of it. However, mid-afternoon he dreams of a road, two-lane asphalt, with Dylan singing low on the stereo and the sky's whirling above them. Sam's about fourteen and sitting in the passenger seat smiling. Then they're in a garden and Sam's fondling the roses and he's never going to age again. Then it's not roses Dean's looking at but a fishing rod and it's not Sam beside him but someone else.

" _The one who started it is the only one who can finish it._ "

"Dean." The voice is a gravelly monotone familiar from the future but not yet. "Dean Winchester."

"Cas."

"Castiel. Yes." The angel is staring at him, he can tell. It's penetrating and long-lasting but it doesn't make Dean uncomfortable the way it did before. In an odd way, he's become used to the angel's quirks. Plus one for Dead Dean's memories.

"Something about you has changed. It's almost like… an echo." Castiel reaches out a hand as if to touch Dean's forehead.

Dean shifts away, "Personal space, Cas."

The fingers stop and Castiel looks at them as if they'd acted on their own. "My apologies."

"No problem."

The angel stares at him a moment longer before settling back into the chair. The equipment beeps softly above his head and there is the quiet murmur of activity outside the room. Bright light seeps in from the corridor so Dean knows that it's day-time. The silence is not quite companionable but Dean just waits.

"What did you do?"

"You wanted me to stop Sam from doing the thing with Ruby. Now it's stopped."

"You killed her." There is no judgment in the angel's voice, no disapproval, no approbation, just the calm statement.

"Technically, she was already dead." Castiel isn't the only one who can do bland-voiced pronouncements. "Bet they aren't too happy with me upstairs," he murmurs. He can't help but feel rather proud at the thought.

"There is a great deal of activity and discussion amongst the garrison about your actions," Castiel confirms mildly.

Dean snorts, "I bet. Kinda messed up the big plan. Ruby can't drag Sam to the altar now that she's dead." A pause, puzzled silence. He doesn't bother opening his eyes because he knows there'd be no real expression on the angel's face. It's too soon. Right now, Castiel is still a hammer. "Do you ever wonder if you're being lied to?"

"Who would lie to me?" Castiel asks.

"Besides humans and demons?" Dean replies with a slow smile. "Anybody who doesn't want you to know the whole truth." Again the long pause. Dean takes the time to wonder where his brother is and whether he'll sneak him in some real food when he comes back. Probably not.

"What… truth are you speaking of?"

That's a good question.

Dean knows lots of truths now; truths that were, truths that are, and truths that might never be again. "If the angels didn't want the Apocalypse to happen, why did they wait so long to get me out of Hell? Why wait until after I… after I broke the first seal?" He takes a breath. "Why didn't they stop me going in the first place?"

"That's not the way Heaven works," Castiel starts, but Dean isn't listening, not really. He's working a few ideas through his somewhat druggy brain.

"If the first seal never gets broken there's no chance of any of the rest going, right? So why not step in way earlier—before Cold Oak say, and then it never becomes a problem."

"We are not allowed to interfere," Cas' voice is still uninflected, still certain of his realities.

"You interfered by sending me back to meet the parents. _And_ you suggested I should be able to interfere when all I did…" Dean's voice trails off in realization at how far back the conspiracy to fuck with their lives goes. "Who told you to send me back?"

"I don't understand."

Now Dean's eyes are open and he's staring at the nerdy-looking angel with his bed-head and his trench coat, familiar-not familiar. "Simple enough question, Cas. Somebody told you to send me back. Who was it?" Dean's voice is rough with anger. Mother-fucking angels!

Castiel frowns slightly, just the tiniest twitch of the eyebrows. "My superior."

"Zachariah," Dean says unthinkingly.

Cas' frown deepens. "How did you—"

Dean ignores the interruption. He's onto something and he wants to get it out. Maybe it'll push Cas onto their side a little earlier this time. "They didn't want me to go back to _stop_ my Mom from making that deal," he explains. "They needed me to go back so that she'd catch Azazel's attention, so that he'd do exactly what he did, and that would set up me and Sam to be the vessels."

"You can't know this." There's a hint of stress in the angel's voice now.

"Pretty damn sure." Dean feels half angry, half sad. "Can't have a cage match if the stars never train for the fight. Throw in a little Ruby and her _a la carte_ buffet to convince Sam that demon blood's just like Wheaties, and you've got me for Michael and Sam for Lucifer and the End Days for us all. Revelation in all its whacked-out glory. Isn't that the plan?"

Castiel looks away, the lines between his brows are a little deeper and Dean recognizes that look. It's Cas thinking about it, examining the new ideas, weighing them. This is the Cas that Dean will get to know…or would've gotten to know…will still get to know? It's odd the trust that he can feel waiting for them, just out of reach. Then the angel looks back at him and the frown is gone, the questions are erased from his eyes, and Dean knows that this Cas isn't ready to break out of his box.

"Even if you can't understand it, have faith, the plan is just."

Dean laughs but it turns into a cough. He waves a hand but the angel doesn't understand. "Drink," Dean instructs.

Castiel looks but can only find a cup with ice chips in it. He frowns at it but Dean waves him over so he digs out a couple pieces and gives them to the injured hunter. "Why did you laugh?"

Dean half sucks, half crunches on the ice. "Because Zachariah doesn't want to stop the seals from being broken; he wants the Apocalypse to happen. 'Ali versus Foreman but on a larger scale'," he quotes from something that hasn't been said yet.

The frown is back. "That makes no sense."

"Except that it kinda does," Dean snorts and hands back the cup. "The only way you angels can go home," he explains. "Return permanently to Heaven, is if Lucifer is destroyed so there'll be no more demons and nothing tempting us poor, weak humans into sin, right?" Cas barely nods but Dean knows he understands. "Other option, if all the humans are dead or damned, there's also no reason for the angels to be stuck here. So either way, the Apocalypse is a win for the angels."

"It is… plausible," Castiel admits, the words rough and slow as if he had to dig them out with a crowbar. "I—"

Footsteps, surprisingly soft for the owner's size, interrupt whatever the angel was going to say.

"Who are you?"

"Hey, Sam. This is Cas." Dean waves at them. "I told you about him. Don't suppose you brought me a cheeseburger?"

Sam ignores the comment and stands there, dumbfounded, before babbling, "Oh my God. Uh, I didn't mean to… Sorry." He stops, takes a breath while Castiel stands and stares at him. "It's an honor, really. I-I've heard a lot about you." He holds out his hand. The angel looks at it as if unsure.

"It's okay, Cas. You can shake it," Dean says, eyes closed. "He's invited you into his personal space."

The angel's face doesn't change much but there is a hint of relief in his eyes, as if he's glad to have it explained. They shake hands. "I've heard much about you, Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood."

"Great way to kill the mood, Cas," Dean murmurs because he can feel Sam's shocked horror from here.

"It's not funny, Dean."

Dean opens his eyes a slit. "It is a little."

Cas is ignoring them. He's staring at Sam as if to see inside him. "Demon blood in sufficient quantity could alter your body's physical properties. Enough that it could contain an angel of Lucifer's power."

"What are you talking about?" Sam's eyes shift over to Dean.

Dean looks away so it's Castiel who answers him. "We were discussing a theory of your brother's." Cas stares at Sam.

Dean watches his brother jiggle uncomfortably under the angel's scrutiny before taking pity on him. "So you agree with me, that that was the plan?" he asks.

Cas' gaze turns back to Dean. "I am uncertain. But you have given me much to think about." The sound of fluttering wings fills the room and Castiel is gone.

"Think away, little dude, as long as you reach the right conclusion," Dean mutters and closes his eyes. It's easier to avoid Sam's gaze with his eyes closed.

"And what is the right conclusion?" Sam asks.

"That his frat brothers are dicks." He doesn't have to see Sam to know his brother is making his bitch face at him.

Hell, if Sam had tried to pass off a comment like that as an answer, Dean would be making a bitch face too. But he can't just come out and say, 'you and me are supposed to house angels, and not just any angels but the two top guys: Michael and Lucifer.' Even though he knows it's true, it sounds too much like those people who get their past lives 'read' and claim to have been Julius Caesar or Marie Antoinette instead of Clyde from the docks or Mary from the laundry down the street. Pretentious as hell.

There's another way out of this conversation though.

"I didn't tell you about Mom, did I?"

* * *

  
"I can't believe it. Mom was a hunter?" Sam feels like he should say more, but his mind is blank as he tries to comprehend where Dean went and what he learned.

"Yeah," Dean takes another drink of juice—it's not coffee but at least it's not more ice chips. "I always figured that, if anybody in our past would've been doing this, it would've been Dad, y'know?"

"Gender stereotyping again?" Sam teases, but his voice is soft and there's no malice in it.

"Bite me." Dean's eyes are closed once again but Sam can tell he's not falling asleep. Maybe the lights in the room are too bright even though they're just standard fluorescent. It's quiet here in the ICU. The only sounds are from the machinery as it beeps its reassuring rhythms. They're going to be moving Dean into a normal ward, soon. Apparently he's healing 'miraculously fast'. When the doctor had said that, Dean asked if he could have some pie as a reward. The doctor hadn't laughed.

"And you're saying that the reason for all of it—our parents, grandparents, our whole family murdered—was so Yellow Eyes could get in my nursery and bleed in my mouth?"

"Yup," Dean confirms.

"So that, if I didn't self-destruct like Max or Andy's brother, I would accept my fate as 'The Chosen' and open the Hell Gate…" Sam pauses. "Why the gate? What was the purpose of that?"

"Aside from letting out an army of demons that Lilith and Yellow Eyes could use to break the Seals?"

Sam dips his head, blushing because, yeah, that's a good reason. He flicks a glance at his brother but Dean's still got his eyes closed. "A demon like Lilith can't just slip through a crack in the wall," Dean says. "Too old, too big, too much… mojo. All the protections and wards around Hell are meant to keep things like her down there."

"So a Hell's Gate."

Dean murmurs confirmation.

It's reasonable, but there are so many gaps and inconsistencies that Sam is having a hard time just accepting it. "What if I hadn't turned my back on Jake? I wouldn't have died; you wouldn't have made… your deal. I wouldn't have opened the Gate and everything would have been for nothing."

Dean rolls his head to look at him, "You sure?" Sam bristles at the implication but Dean continues, unconcerned. "I mean, Azazel would have done anything— _anything_ —to make it happen. What if he'd offered you Dad back? Or Jess? What if he'd threatened me or Bobby? Or Ellen and Jo?" Dean's voice hitches over the last two names but Sam doesn't get a chance to wonder about it before Dean's moving on. "Everyone breaks, Sam. Everyone…"

This is it, Sam thinks. Dean's going to talk to him about what he went through in Hell and why he's so changed. He's still not ready but, fuck it, he'll never be ready to hear how badly his big brother was hurt. Except when Dean starts to talk, it's not about Hell.

"You were right," Dean says on a sigh, "when you said the deal was selfish. It was. I just… You'd walked away before, went to the coast started a new life and did pretty good at it—"

"Until Jess."

"Yeah, until that."

Then Sam gets it. "You assumed that I'd do it again. That I'd just—what?—forget about you down in the Pit?" He glared at his brother, the easy anger rising to the surface, a familiar weight.

"I don't think I ever got that far, actually. You were dead and I was alone. That's all I was thinking; I was alone and I'd failed. I can't be sorry that you're alive. I can't… but I am sorry that I put you through that—the countdown, everything."

"You're apologizing?" Sam can't believe it. This… this isn't his brother, except that it is. "What happened to you? You never apologize."

Dean says nothing, so Sam leans forward. "You said that you had a right to know about what I did while you were in Hell, well… I have a right to know what happened to you _in_ Hell because, I swear, man, half the time I'm not sure you're my brother any more. I don't care if you thumbnail it, Dean. Give me something."

Dean blinks, staring at the ceiling. If he's crying, Sam can't tell. He can never tell when Dean's crying because, while Sam gets all snotty and gross, Dean's tears fall quietly—barely acknowledged. "Time's different down there."

Sam swallows and braces himself.

"Up here it was four months, but down there…" Dean pauses, gathers himself. "It was more like forty years."

"Oh my God." Sam leans forward even closer, but not in demand—not anymore. Now he's trying to give Dean some support, trying to let his brother know that he's here, he's listening. Dean shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. He won't look at Sam but Sam's okay with that. That's the Dean he knows.

One final breath and Dean begins again, "For thirty years, they sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you… until there was nothing left. And then, suddenly, I'd be whole again. Like magic."

Sam watches as Dean's fingers start plucking at the blanket covering his stomach.

Oh crap, Sam realizes, Dean's not done. There's more. And now _he's_ practically crying too because he always did cry at silly things, let alone stuff like this. He cried during Bambi, for God's sake, and that was just a cartoon deer! He braces himself but he says nothing, does nothing, just listens and remembers to breathe.

"It would start all over again, over and over. Alastair, you haven't met him, but he was in charge and he'd come over at the end of every day— _every one_ —and he would make me an offer. He would take me off the rack if I would put souls on. If I would do the torturing."

Sam swallows back bile. This was so much worse than he'd imagined. "Thirty years?"

Dean nods and the tears are visible now, glinting on his cheek. "I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't. I said yes. And I… I started… I did what he asked. I lost count of how many souls I ripped apart."

"Dean…" God he wants to touch him, wants to pull Dean in close and, and comfort him, _heal_ him, but Sam knows it's not that easy. He tries again. "Dean, you held out for thirty years. That's longer than anyone would have."

His brother rubs a hand over his face, trying to make it casual. "Maybe. I dunno." A surreptitious sniff. "They would have kept at it, no matter what. They needed me to break, to give in. The things I did, Sam…"

"It doesn't make you evil, Dean," Sam feels the need to say it; to put it out there on the table. "It doesn't make you a bad person. You… you were _tortured._ "

But Dean isn't really listening to him. "I broke the first Seal."

"What?" Sam sits back.

"' _And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break_.' Alistair told me that. This—" he waves a finger at the world, "all of this, is my fault because I wasn't strong enough. Not strong enough to let you go, not strong enough to stay human."

"Jesus." Sam says in prayer. He's never seen his brother like this: so _vulnerable_. Not even when Dad died. "You said it though, Dean. Everybody breaks and… and if they wanted it— _needed it_ —so bad… they would never have stopped. Nobody should expect you not to give in at some point."

"Yeah, I know, I know, I do. It's just—" Another quick face wipe. "I think the angels let it happen. I think they just left me down there until they were certain I'd broken the first seal."


	4. Chapter 4

They don't have time to explore Dean's confession or his angel conspiracy theory because the police arrive. Sam repeats the story he'd spun to get Dean admitted, trying to keep it simple, innocent, but fears he's failing miserably. Interviews, he decides, are a lot harder from this side. Especially when he knows he's guilty. Maybe the cops wouldn't have bought it, but when Sam talks about his brother's self-sacrificing need to play hero, his voice rings with absolute truth. It's filled with his fear for Dean's life. When he says he hadn't seen the danger, hadn't realized what was going on, he means that too. Ruby had been so supportive and he'd been so crazed with grief; he should have known Dean would never accept her as part of the team.

Dean's mostly quiet but obviously upset that he hadn't saved the girl (at least, they let the cops think that). He's sad and pale, and the perfect tragic hero. Just from looking at him, the detectives' aggressiveness softens and neither of them push their questions as hard as they could. The interview concludes with a lecture about using 911 instead of trying to be heroes, and an order to call if they remember anything further. Those are followed by Sam's false assurances that they would, of course they would and firm nothing-to-hide handshakes.

He decides to wait until he can't hear their footsteps anymore before going back to their previous conversation, but the doctor comes in with the charge nurse. Short, round, dark skin pale after thirty-six hours on duty, he examines Dean's chart. Both of them check his wound and his stats and even peer into his eyes.

Sam stands in the hall, watching them move around his brother, manipulating his body, judging Dean's responses: clinical, efficient, cold—breathing meat. Sam wonders if this is one of the ways Dean had been treated in Hell. He certainly looks like he's being tortured.

"Mr. Micklewhite?"

It takes Sam a moment to remember that's the name on the insurance card. He looks down at the owner of the voice. A tiny woman, barely reaching his sternum, she wears the white lab coat, stethoscope and badge that proclaim her to be Dr. Yvette Ladouceur. He hasn't seen her before because between the name and the size, Sam would've remembered her.

"I'm Doctor Ladouceur. I work in the labs." Her voice is softly accented but not local. "I analyzed your brother's blood and something came up that I want to talk to you about."

Sam's mind stops. HIV or hepatitis. Maybe it's sickle-cell anemia, because if anyone was going to get a rare blood disease outside his ethnic group, it would be his hard-luck brother. On the other hand, the angels surely would've fixed something like that. Wouldn't they?

"… very rare genetic variation," she's saying. "It only occurs in one in 400,000 Americans."

"He's not sick?" Sam interrupts.

She blinks up at him. "No, not at all. In fact Dagg-Himmelsaat Syndrome helps the body combat illness and disease. People who have it often heal faster and with fewer complications than other people." She goes on about how it runs in families so he probably has it as well, and Sam thinks it explains why neither of them are crippled or horribly disfigured despite their lives. Then she asks to take blood samples from them and jolts Sam out of his reminiscent haze.

"No. I'm sorry, but no," he states firmly, trying not to feel like the evil giant terrorizing the noble child heroine when the doctor's face falls. He has to suffer through several more minutes of her enthusiastic sales pitch—"think of the applications if we could duplicate it"—before Dean's doctor waves him into the room and frees him from being polite.

"We're going to be moving your brother out of ICU tomorrow," he says and Sam slumps in relief he hadn't known he'd feel.

The doctor's explaining what to expect although Sam already knows since he's been here before. They'll take the tubes out of Dean's nose and his stomach before shifting him to a new ward. They'll be changing his drugs, and maybe, finally, they'll allow the guy some coffee so that he'll stop bugging Sam to sneak some in, which always makes him feel guilty when he brings in a cup for himself.

But that's for tomorrow.

For now the doctors and the nurses have finished fussing and giving instructions and Dean, emotionally wrung and physically tired, waves Sam out the door when he mentions making a few calls. It's actually an excuse, because Dean's eyes are blurred and his skin is pale, and he looks like talking too hard will make him pass out. Sam's already had one doctor explain how close Dean had come to dying and, despite the Dagg-Himmelwhatsit, Dean hasn't been looking good. Sam can't help wondering if this will be the time his brother doesn't bounce back.

Looking at his brother after another long day healing, Sam doesn't need the words. His own guilt is there for him to read as easily as opening a book. Forget coffee, he thinks. He needs a beer.

* * *

  
Dean hates this healing stuff. It seems to take him longer and longer each time. He especially hates healing in hospitals with their bland, industrial empathy. The professional caregivers that treat him like sentient meat, able to control his body but unable to _do_ anything—like move from the bed into a wheelchair on his own.

He'd been moved out of the ICU and it was, as always, a humiliating process. They'd drained the tubes and removed them, and then they'd unplugged him, tucked him in, and rolled him around. All the while talking about what they were doing, what would happen, how he was healing, and what he should be feeling, but none of those words were actually directed _to_ him. They were said to fill up space, to make the intimate process less impersonal. It didn't work. It rarely did. Now, however, the nurses and the doctors have left, and Sam's gone to do Sam stuff, which can no longer involve Ruby—hallelujah for that, at least—so that Dean can rest after 'his ordeal'.

The sucky thing is, he needs it. He's freaking _exhausted_ just from lying around.

He hates healing.

The shared room is over-warm and relatively quiet since the only other person in the room is some old guy who's working his way through a book of crossword puzzles. His monitors still beep, but softly, and there's still people in the hall, but they're distant, so Dean lets himself drift out of consciousness…

Blankness, the Void. No memories, no regrets. Peace.

Colors first. Flashes of light. Then images, foggy and blurred to start, but sharpening, developing knives to cut him with. Anna. Alistair. Pamela. Sam… Adam. Lilith. Zachariah. Chuck. Bobby. Ellen and Jo… It's the future as it was. Sam, Not-Sam. Famine. Lucifer. Michael. Gabriel. Death… Castiel. Lisa. Adam. Sam. Not-Sam. Lisa and Ben. Grandpa Samuel. Not-Sam.

Sam…

His eyes drift open as he remembers that he's in a hospital bed. IVs and stitches and having no energy tie him down, weight his body and his spirit. It's all very familiar—too fucking familiar now that he remembers more of his future memories. However, being visited by a ghost of himself is relatively new.

"So this happened," his spirit says easily. He—it?—flickers and Dean knows that it's not the drugs causing him to hallucinate (more's the pity) but that he's dead… again.

"How long?" he asks.

"A month, I guess." Dead Dean II's voice is rueful and amused—and oddly relaxed—but Dean's stunned. One _month?_

"That's worse…than last time." Christ, his throat hurts. "What happened?"

"Let's just say, I highly recommend stopping Sam Hain from rising. He's fucking brutal," His ghost self chuckles. It's jarringly inappropriate, Dean thinks.

"He's a demon," his ghost explains. "Nearly impossible to stop once he's fully risen and the shit he pulls up with him? Zombies, ghouls, ghosts, demons—the worst kind of freaky ass shit… Even the angels had a hard time. Sam tried, but all he did was make his own brain explode or something." His ghost sighs sadly. "It was really, really bad." He bobs his head and it wobbles so much it's giving real Dean a sympathetic neck ache.

"So Sam was killed?" Dean can barely force out the question.

"Shit no! Hain turned him," his ghost said in cheerful tones. "Just touched him when he was reeling, and Sam went all evil, soulless robot and his eyes were all white and freaky, just like Hain's. When I tried to shoot the bastard, Sam stopped me and tossed me into a crowd of zombies as a snack—thankfully I was mostly dead already."

"That's…" Dean's voice trails away. "That's not good."

"No kidding," Zombie Lunch agrees easily.

"So stop Sam Hain. Got it," he murmurs and gets more head bobbing in return. "Do you remember where he rose or who did the spell or the ritual or whatever called—calls—him up?"

"I can remember a playground, a, umm, tomb thingy. Oh, and a kid in an astronaut suit who messed with my car. 'Bout it," he shrugs. "Sorry, man. They kinda munched on my brains." He tilts what's left of his head—Zombie Lunch indeed—and is either looking at or listening to something only he can sense.

"How did you know to do the spell then?" Dean asks. The spirit just raises his eyebrow in confusion, goofy smile still in place. "The one to bring you back to me," he explains. "You—we—don't know it."

"Ohh," his ghost says. "Sure we do. Dead Dean the First told us. Remember?"

Dean searches through his memories, sharp but somehow slipstreaming one into another, and finds the ritual. It was surprisingly simple—if you'd once been raised from the dead by angels and then got Death pissed off at you. "I remember now."

"Good, great." His spirit grins at him as if he's Einstein and Gates rolled into one. Then Zombie Lunch ducks his head and points at the wall behind him. "So I should probably get going, I guess."

"Hey," Dean scratches out before his ghost can vanish, "where do we go?"

"After we die?" He nods and Zombie Lunch laughs, unconcerned. "Fucked if I know."

"Not back to Hell?" He knows the question sounds scared and weak, but now that he remembers the Pit, he'd rather be thrust into the void as an atheist than go back there.

"I don't know. I wish I could tell you, but I can't." His ghost's voice is finally solemn. "I gotta go, man. Good luck, okay?"

"Thanks," he says. "Good luck to you, too." He tries watching but he blinks and when his lids lift, his ghost is gone.

* * *

  
"What do you know about Sam Hain?"

It's after supper and Sam's feeling full after enjoying a sandwich combo and a beer… and a decent cup of coffee. He looks at the remains of Dean's soup and Jell-O and feels guilty about the coffee.

"Sam Hain? You mean Samhain." He gives it the proper pronunciation of 'souwin'.

"Actually," Dean repeats with a bit more force, "I'm talking about the demon Sam Hain." But Sam's already shaking his head.

"It's a common mistake, but Samhain was never evil. It was just a Celtic harvest festival. Samhain was misidentified as a death god sometime in the 1700s—" He stops because Dean is staring at him. "What?"

"Walking encyclopedia of weird," his brother says and Sam tries not to feel insulted. "There's a demon, called Sam Hain, who may or may not have been named after the Celtic festival, or whatever." Dean waves it away. "The point is he's a bad mofo and we need to stop him."

It's Sam's turn to stare. "Where are you getting this stuff? You're stuck in a hospital bed."

Dean shifts, bites his lips and Sam knows he doesn't want to say anything. Dean flicks an embarrassed glance his way—a silent plea to let it drop. Sam ignores it. He continues to stare until his brother coughs it up.

"Visions?" Dean says tentatively

"Visions?" He laughs because he knows Dean'll _hate_ having visions. "When did _you_ start having visions?" Dean does that shifty-eyed, not-going-to-answer thing again, so Sam theorizes on his own. "They say that trauma, physical or emotional, can trigger the start of psychic or paranormal abilities. Could…could what happened to you have done something like that?"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean snorts in surprise, looking at him in genuine amusement. "I don't think there's a survivor's guide for this stuff."

"But it's possible."

Dean tilts his head away, smile dropping off his face. "It's as good an explanation as any."

"Huh," Sam responds. He's still smiling, a little, because he's not the only one suffering from weirdo supernatural shit. "I wonder if _you_ can bend spoons."

"Shut up."

Sam's smiling broadly now. "I'll find you one and you can try. Maybe you'll do better than me." Dean scowls at him, looking fiercely petulant, like his brother from years and eons ago.

"Yeah, well…" Dean shrugs

Sam waits but Dean just resettles his head and closes his eyes as if he's tired, and doesn't say anything more. Sam realizes he's waiting for Dean to call him a bitch and then he'd call Dean a jerk and it would be like it was two years ago. But Dean's not going to. It seems significant somehow, as if Dean doesn't want to go back to what they had.

Dean's got his eyes closed again, and it occurs to Sam, that Dean's barely looked at him since he got hurt—since you _stabbed_ him, Sam's brain reminds him. He'd sliced open his brother, and if Dean hadn't turned when he did, hadn't grabbed his arm and managed to slow him just that little bit, then he might have actually killed him.

He feels sick.

"Dean, look—"

"Don't say anything." Dean doesn't even look at him.

"I'm sorry. Really sorry, man." He clears his throat because this isn't easy. "I don't know what came over me. I wasn't thinking." At least now Dean's looking at him.

"Yeah, I get it. You were angry."

"Well, yeah," Sam shrugs. He hates it, but he feels the need to justify Ruby, justify letting her into his life. "Ruby was my ally, Dean. She was a tool. It's not like I trusted her so you didn't have to… you know."

"Whatever." Dean's rubbing a hand over his face, tugging his lip down.

Dean's eyes are closed again, shutting him out, so Sam rushes to explain more, better; to get Dean to see. "I mean, I understand why you felt you had to—"

"Because she was a _demon_?" Dean points out, "and she was _lying_ to you?"

Sam swallows down his automatic protest. He's not sure all the stuff Dean's been spouting is absolutely true… but he's not sure it's completely wrong either. "I suppose," he finally concedes, "but I talked to Bobby and the Seals are still falling."

"I figured." Dean pulls in a deep breath, wincing slightly as it tugs on his stitches. "But I was also thinking; if we can send Lilith back to Hell without killing her, hopefully it'll take the next team of demonic go-getters another millennium or two to get her back out again."

"Huh? _What_?" Sam's sure he heard wrong. " _Banish_ Lilith?"

"Yup."

"Then she'll just be someone else's problem," Sam says in disbelief. "Why don't we just kill her and have done with it?"

"I've told you why not, Sam," Dean answers impatiently. "Because Lilith _is_ the last Seal."

"Okay, yeah, you said that," Sam agrees, "but it doesn't make any sense. How is Lilith the last Seal?"

"Prophecies, Sam." Dean wipes a weary hand across his face. "' _And it is Written that the First Demon shall be the last Seal. And the Chosen will become the Vessel and He shall walk free_.' Kill Lilith and Satan's out of the box."

"You're saying Lilith would sacrifice herself to free Lucifer?" Sam asks. When Dean nods Sam snorts in disbelief. "Why would she do that?"

"Because she's a fanatic and she wants her lord to be free," Dean answers with a casual shrug. Sam tries to understand but that just doesn't make sense: demons don't believe in _God._ They're _demons_. Dean must see Sam's confused look because he sighs. "You think us humans have an exclusive on faith and a belief in a higher power?"

"Demons have religion?"

Dean nods once sharply and Sam knows Dean believes it but when Sam tries to wrap his head around it, he really can't.

"So why a vessel? I thought demons just needed to possess somebody." Even as the words leave his mouth Sam knows they're stupid. "Lucifer's an angel," he says just a beat or two after his brother. Dean blinks, a long blink. Then he blinks again and his eyelids stay down.

"Yeah, fucking angels. 'Bout as trustworthy as demons." Dean sounds tired and he's looking exhausted, and Sam is slammed with guilt once again. Him and his stupid fucking temper! Dean made it easy though, he argues, didn't even try to stop him from grabbing the knife. Probably because he never thought you would stab him, you dumbass, Sam berates himself, and feels guiltier than ever.

God, he's tired of feeling guilty.

"Look, um, you seem tired, so I'm just going to, you know, go phone Bobby," he says, randomly. "Maybe look for info about Sam Hain. Let you get your rest." Because if he has to spend another minute watching Dean wince every time he breathes, he's going to put his fist through the wall.

"You do that, Sam." Dean's voice is slurred as his healing body drags him back into sleep. He doesn't even notice when Sam slips out of the room.

Sam goes outside to make the phone call, needing the space, wanting to stretch his legs and, yes, okay, just _escape_ for a bit. The phone rings and rings before switching over to voice mail. His message is short, just that Bobby should call him back when he can. By the time he's finished speaking, he's feeling twitchy. He doesn't know what's going on and he hates it. Before he'd had a plan: he and Ruby would take down Lilith and save the world. The year before that, it had been saving Dean from his deal—not that it had worked, but it had been a tangible goal, something real, something he could focus on. Before that? He'd been focused on finding the creature that had killed Jess.

Now he's got nothing.

Banish Lilith? Puh- _lease_ , he thinks, the whole idea is a joke and it's a fucking insult to the memory of all the people she killed, starting with his brother and running right on through Agent Henrikson. Banish her? He wants to rip her apart.

Yet, if that prophecy of Dean's is correct, killing her is the worst thing he could do, so he's back to feeling without purpose and useless and worse, like a monster, because he let his temper take control. Not the first time it's happened since Dean got pulled into Hell but the first time he'd hurt a human being because of it. Of course, because he's a Winchester, the first person he hurts like that _would_ be his brother. His big brother, who's always got to be better and strong and _right_.

It's only as he slows down, lungs heaving, sweat dripping, that Sam realizes that he's been running—not jogging—flat-out running, in the Memphis heat. He's so hot he feels like he's going to puke. He's got no water and he's wearing _jeans,_ for Christ's sake. What the hell was he thinking?

His only answer is, he isn't thinking. He's panicking and he doesn't know why.

* * *

  
The next day Sam arrives while Dean is shuffling, painfully slow, back to his bed.

"Whoa, dude. Should you be up?" He rushes to Dean's side but at least he doesn't grab him, which would be both useless and humiliating.

"Doc said it was a good idea then Nurse Ratched nagged until I actually did it," Dean answers, dragging the IV pole along or maybe hanging on to it, Dean can't really tell. What Alistair had done to him in Hell… had been beyond imagining, and yet when Alistair had healed him it was over, done, and none of this dragging, aching soreness that forces him to think about every move before he makes it.

"Not going to go chasing any wendigos but," Dean shrugs, "ambling around a hospital is okay. Still not allowed coffee though." He's reached the bed and works his way onto it. "What'd you find out?"

Sam drags in a breath. "You were right about him." His brother offers him print-outs that Dean lays on his lap. "He's old, way older than the Irish death god myth. In fact, he was just some low-level Celtic godling that barely made it into the pantheon. Forty-four days after the fall equinox, the one night of the year when the veil was the thinnest between the living and the dead, was his night. It didn't mean much—just another day—until the Christians arrived in Ireland. Then something happened and this minor god became the thing that's the basis for most of our Halloween traditions. We wear masks to hide from him, give out gifts to appease him, and make jack o'lanterns to keep him away."

"But he's been gone a while, right?"

Sam nods. "He was exorcised centuries ago but the traditions stuck and eventually got mixed up with the pagan harvest festivals and then everything got rolled up into All Hallows Eve, the day before All Saints Day, one of the most sacred days in the Catholic calendar." He pulls out a page for Dean to look at. "However, there's a ritual that can be used to raise him. It only works once every six hundred years, and guess what this year is?"

Dean's response is weary, "Year six hundred?"

"Yahtzee," Sam responds. "Three blood sacrifices over three days, the last before midnight on the final day of the final harvest. In the Celtic calendar this year, the final day of the final harvest is October 31st."

"Of course," he sighs.

"We need to stop this guy," Sam says, giving Dean a serious look and tapping the sheet of paper Dean's holding.

Dean looks down at the picture obediently and sees the typical horned demon standing on a heap of bodies and holding a severed head in his hand while other things crawl out of a crack in the ground. It's odd, he thinks, but he never saw a horned demon while he was downstairs. Tentacles and claws, yes. Goat horns, no.

"He likes company," Sam's explaining when Dean tunes back in. "Once he's raised, Sam Hain can do some raising of his own, and what he brings up is dark, evil crap and lots of it. They follow him around like he's the friggin' Pied Piper." Sam clenches his jaw in determination. "It starts with ghosts and ghouls, but this sucker keeps on going. By the end of the night, he'll have raised every awful thing we have ever seen. Everything we fight, all in one place."

"It'll be a slaughterhouse," Dean says. Unnecessarily, as far as he's concerned. He doesn't have to imagine it, he remembers it. The zombies, the ghouls, the angry spirits; all of them, heading toward him. He'd done okay until Sam…

He's not going to think about that. It's not going to happen anymore.

"Any idea where he's going to come up?" Sam's question cuts off Dean's unhappy thoughts. Unfortunately, he has to shake his head. He's been trying, but he can't bring forward the name of the town, or the first victim or the names of the witches out of the murky not-his-own memories of the event. He remembers one victim died from razor-blade infested cookies… or was it candy? He also remembers one witch was a guy, an art teacher with faceless screaming masks hanging from his ceiling. The other was a hot blonde cheerleader, and they went to the same school and pretended not to know each other.

He almost has a picture… a school name…

Sam snorts and the image disappears. "Unfortunately, anybody with the know-how and the materials could do it and we won't know if it's the right spell until the first person is dead. Even then…" he trails off.

"Even then, how do we separate a sacrifice for an evil spell from a regular weird death?" Dean finishes.

"Yeah. Unless or until you have another creepy-ass vision," Sam says, "we're searching for a needle in a stack of needles."

"Razor blades," Dean says. "It's Halloween, right? Razor blades in apples is one of Halloween's enduring urban legends."

"That's… that makes sense," Sam agrees. "I was also thinking that, if you tell me everything you saw in your vision, I could set up a web-crawler to search out any news story that matches."

Dean's sigh is audible this time. "I could really use some coffee for this."

* * *

  
It takes another day for Dean to finally talk one of the nurses into giving him coffee and that's only because he's healing abnormally fast. It's decaf and weak and Dean bitches loudly about it. Sam barely listens to him. For one, he's busy on the laptop trying to find the unusually weird death that will tell them where the witches—Dean insists there'll be at least two—are going to do the ritual to raise Sam Hain. Two, Dean's clutching the cup containing the too-awful-to-drink coffee as if it's gold and he's Yosemite Sam. And three, Sam's trying very hard to not shake like a drunk with the DTs.

He's also trying very hard to convince himself that he's twitching because he wants to be on the road and not because he's craving Ruby's blood.

He's not an addict.

He tells himself that. He _knows_ it because he'd asked Ruby, flat out, if he would become addicted and she'd said no.

Yeah, okay, demons lie, but he'd told her—in graphic, bloody detail—exactly what he'd do to her if she lied to him about this. And he'd threatened her: holding her by her hair and making it hurt, his other hand tight around her throat, making sure she knew he _could_ do what he'd said. He'd scared her. And she told him that he wouldn't become addicted.

But his hand is twitching…

"Christ, I hate stitches," Dean mutters forcefully.

Sam looks over and his brother is rubbing the blanket over his wound. "Hey, don't scratch that," he says and bumps Dean's foot in emphasis.

"Hello, Dean; Sam."

Sam tries to cover the nervous jump he'd made by twisting to look at the newcomer. "Castiel," he says and tucks his arm close to his chest to cover the trembling.

"Hey, Cas," Dean's greeting is much more casual and it makes Sam wonder just how many times they've met for his brother to be so relaxed in the angel's presence. "You come to heal me?" Green eyes peer into the dregs of light gold liquid. "Then maybe I could get some decent coffee… And some pie."

"You're already healing much faster than most humans. To do more would occasion comment among the staff," the angel answers solemnly.

"Wait…" Sam frowns. "Does that mean you _have_ been healing Dean?"

Bright blue eyes, oddly innocent and yet weary with ancient knowledge, look at him—into him. "Of course. Seals are falling. Angels are dying. Dean is…" His rough voice fades.

"Dean is… what?" Dean asks. "Do I get a straight answer this time?"

It's the angel's turn to frown as his gaze switches to the man he'd saved. "You are a vessel." Dean snorts but not in disbelief.

"Wait," Sam interrupts, "Dean's a vessel? Like… for an angel?"

Castiel looks at him, head tilted, "Yes, but not just any vessel or my superior would not have told us that we are to obey Dean as if his orders come from him."

Holy shit, Sam thinks. He looks at his brother knowing he'll see his look of bewilderment echoed on Dean's face.

It isn't there. Instead Dean's face is shuttered and hard.

Castiel isn't finished. He steps closer to the bed. "Zachariah said that we must get you used to leading us, but he did not explain why a human would be anointed our general."

"Did he tell you how?" Dean asks. His voice isn't hopeful.

"He did not," Castiel confirms. "And… and he seemed evasive when the question was asked."

"He lied," Sam translates. "I didn't think angels _could_ lie."

"We cannot," Castiel answers.

Dean makes another one of those snorting laughs. "There are a thousand different shades of truth that aren't technically lying," the hunter says. "Some angels know all of them." Castiel's eyes drop and Sam knows that what Dean said was true, and that Castiel didn't want to know that truth.

"So why do you think the angels were told to obey you?" he asks his brother. He fully expects to get one of those 'thousand shades' so he's a little surprised when Dean looks at him full on.

"Ruby was supposed to get you all set to be Lucifer's vessel, right?" Dean pauses, waiting for Sam to agree.

Dean's acknowledging smile is bittersweet. "So Hell's forces would have a general here on Earth. Heaven's forces would need one too or else there'd be no climactic battle to determine the fate of the world."

"The Apocalypse," Castiel interjects as if Sam needs the clarification.

Sam rolls his eyes. "And _you're_ going to be the general?" He knows his tone is sarcastic but, c'mon! This is Dean they're talking about. "Dean, your strategies consist of 'jump right in and start shooting'."

"Oh, it wouldn't be _me_ , just my body." His brother waves his hand over his frame, "Michael needs a vessel and this bod is it."

"Michael," Sam repeats. "The archangel. Flaming sword, fighter of demons, holy force against evil. That Michael?"

"Yup."

"It makes sense," Castiel comments and Sam stares at him.

"How does that make sense?" he asks.

"Think about it, Sam," Dean says. "This isn't some big religious battle. It's sibling rivalry and family squabbling. It's about two brothers that loved each other but still betrayed each other. Sounds familiar right?" Sam stays uncomfortably quiet. "So I'm the big brother, kick-ass fighter, loyal to Dad beyond what you think he deserved, right?" Sam nods because, yeah, it fits. "That's Michael."

"And that makes me—"

"Lucifer, the little brother, teenage rebellion and self-righteous stubbornness personified," Dean confirms, twisting his coffee cup around in his hands. "They take over our bodies and then we— _they_ —fight until one brother kills the other. Concluding a grudge match started eons ago and destroying half the world in the process."

"That's…" stupid is what he was going to say, but Sam can't because it's not. "So, we're supposed to, like, let ourselves be possessed–"

"It is not possession," Castiel corrects pedantically. "The vessel must give his or her consent to the angel."

"Some guy said yes to having you ride around in his skin?" Castiel says nothing. Sam laughs in disbelief. "This is what you guys have planned for us? Life as angel condoms? Thanks, I think we'll pass."

Castiel turns his steady regard on the younger Winchester. "It is ordained."

"Not a chance," Sam crosses his arms belligerently.

"I am sorry, Sam Winchester," Castiel says in this über-gentle voice, "but no matter what choice you make or actions you take, you will say yes eventually."

Sam just stares at the angel because, yeah, really not what he wants to hear. He half expects Dean to jump to his defense—because Dean always jumps to his defense—but his brother stays silent. "Don't tell me you believe him," he growls at his injured brother.

"It is not your fault, Sam," Castiel interrupts. "Destiny cannot be changed."

"Screw destiny," he declares and this time Dean's voice echoes his.

"Destiny is crap, Cas," Dean continues. "It's a bunch of lies and a way for your bosses to keep me and you and Sam in line! If we do that, if we let them have their way, it's all going to burn. Heaven, Hell, and everything in between, consumed by chaos and evil and civil war."

Jesus, Sam thinks, that must have been one scary-ass vision. No wonder his brother seems so determined.

"Sam and I," Dean continues, "we have a chance—slim but real—to change things, to save everyone."

Castiel turns to Dean and, for the first time Sam's ever seen, he's not completely calm. "What is so worth saving? I see nothing but pain here. I see inside you. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In paradise, all is forgiven. You will be at peace."

Sam snorts without humour. "You can take your peace and shove it up your lily-white ass," he murmurs.

Dean flicks him a glance and a smile flirts over his lips, "I agree with Sam. I'll take the pain and the guilt. I'll even take Sam as is. It's a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise or endlessly reliving Memorexed versions of our greatest hits in Heaven."

"I don't understand. Why would you not want that?" There's a little dip in the middle of the angel's brow and Sam has to concede that he really is trying.

"It's simple, Cas," Dean answers. "There's right and there's wrong. Letting demons kill our family—Mom, Dad, Sam's girlfriend, our grandparents? Wrong. Making it so that Azazel set his sights on Mom in the first place? Wrong. Setting us up so that your frat brothers can continue a fight—one that should've been over before the Bible was written, by the way. Wrong again. Now they're planning to just stand back while they kill millions of people, God's creations. It's all wrong, Cas, and you know it."

The angel is silent. He can't hold the green-eyed hunter's gaze for long. He turns away from them, moving to the window and looking up into the sky, looking toward a Heaven where God's not been heard from since the Rockies formed.

Sam looks at his brother, wondering what Dean has planned—if anything—and gets a half shrug in return, which means Dean was essentially performing a random keyword search and has no idea what results he's going to get. As if to reinforce the analogy, Dean's monitor beeps quietly and footsteps tap-tap-tap in the hall. Inside the room is the heavy stillness of anticipation.

Finally the angel sighs and turns back to them. "What would you have me do?"

"Do you know where Sam Hain is going to rise?"


	5. Chapter 5

"This is stupid, Dean." It's not the first time Sam's said it, and it won't be the last time Dean ignores it.

"It's been less than a week. You should stay in the hospital." Dean shrugs and walks—creaks—steadily toward the Impala.

"God! It's like the rawhead all over again," his brother grinds out. "When your stitches pop and you die, I am going to freaking kill you."

Been dead; can't recommend it, Dean thinks but doesn't say. A different thought occurs to him. "What was it like for you?" he asks. "After Cold Oak. You were dead for three days. Do you remember where you were?"

Sam stops and stares. "I can't believe you. What the hell difference does it make where I was?"

"I figure you must have gone to Heaven, had Thanksgiving with Stephanie what's 'er name about a hundred times." The memory of what he'd found out about Sam's definition of Heaven had filtered in through a dream, a very unsettling and unhappy dream. It had stayed with him when some of Dead Dean the First's other memories had not. He reminds himself that it's not going to happen. Not anymore.

Doesn't change the fact Sam's Heaven consisted of other families' memories.

"Dean?"

He jerks back to the here and now to see Sam is frowning at him. "There are times," Sam says, "when I really think you're a changeling, some kind of Dean-from-an-alternate-universe."

This time Dean laughs out loud. "You wouldn't be the only one, dude," he says before slowly and carefully levering himself into the passenger seat. "C'mon, Sam, don't want to be late for the party."

The witches are in Palestine, Illinois. It's a six- or seven-hour drive from Memphis for a law-abiding citizen. Dean would've made it in five, but Dean's unconscious in the passenger seat. Stubborn bastard should've stretched out in the back. Sam's not above taking advantage, though. He's got his iPod jack in and is playing soft, dreamy guitar that requires no effort. Dean would've totally bitched at him about the tunes and Sam's half-surprised that the very calmness of the music hasn't disturbed his crotch-rock addicted older brother. It doesn't. Dean goes on sleeping. Lulled there, perhaps, by the familiar crooning of the Impala's engine.

Sam also uses the time to look at his brother, _really_ look. Seeing the wrinkles, slightly deeper, and the frown that never quite goes away. The freckles are thick over Dean's face, standing out more than they usually do.

There's grey in his hair.

Just a few strands, but enough that, even a couple years ago it would've started a prank war. Sam would've had the hair color in the shampoo so quick… Or maybe that bluing stuff old ladies use to make their hair go white-white instead of yellowy-white. Sam smiles, wondering what Dean would do in retaliation. Sam's smile falls away because it's not two years ago and he's not sure they'll ever have another prank war.

Even when Dean manages to sleep in the car, it isn't very healing. He needs something to take his mind off the stupid fucking itchy scab that is his healing wound—and the painful weeping sore that's his relationship with Sam—so he spends some of the trip designing new badges for them to use once they're in Palestine. He even goes so far as to do a mock-up on Sam's laptop.

Sam frowns when he shows him the rough draft. "Food and Drug Administration. Dean, seriously?"

"Who else would inspect tainted food?" he answers with a smile he knows doesn't reach his eyes. It would be a challenge—FDA investigator badges aren't common—but Sam just shakes his head. That's okay. Dean isn't committed to the idea anyway.

He's still drooping by the time they reach Palestine and the half-hour or so it takes Sam to locate the first victim only increases the temptation he feels to stay at the motel and let Sam do all the footwork. Except he has to direct his brother to the evidence and he can't do that from bed. So when Sam, like the mother-hen he is, suggests he stay behind, Dean puts on the macho-bullshit act he's perfected for moments like these and forces himself to change into the suit.

The first sacrifice is Luke Wallace who, as Dean had predicted, ate candies that turned into razor blades in his mouth and throat and stomach the morning they arrive in Palestine. Dean consoles himself with the idea that if it hadn't been the husband, then someone else in the house would've died in an equally gruesome way. There was a baby, he remembers. What if the spell had turned the boy's mush into acid or something? Dean couldn't have handled that. Kids getting hurt has always been a weak spot.

He looks at it, the Wallace's home. It's a nice, well-cared for two-story Victorian typical of the Midwest. It's currently decked out for Halloween, with Styrofoam tombstones and plastic bones. People would probably mistake the crime scene tape as part of the decorations except for the squad car out front. "Maybe we should talk to Mrs. Wallace first," Sam suggests again and Dean can see him looking at the stairs.

Fucking stairs, Dean sighs, but he still drags himself out of the car. "Nah," Dean replies, "I doubt she has much to add other than 'we live in horrible times' or something along that line." And then he climbs up the fucking stairs. He could definitely live without stairs.

They flash their FBI badges to the young patrolman. The guy, who looks barely old enough to shave, gazes at them in awe and waves them in. As soon as they step into the house, Dean remembers. He actually has to pause as the memories solidify and sharpen in a way that's fucking dizzying.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is concerned.

Dean tries to focus but all he sees is this hand coming for him with something shiny and he doesn't think, just reacts, backing away from the threat. Sam drops his hand and Dean sees that it was his brother's watch, catching the afternoon sunlight. He looks up into Sam's face and sees hurt and betrayal and anger.

He can't take the movement back and he can't think of an explanation. "Give me a moment," he says, stalling for time. "Something just… hit me."

"Another vision?" Sam moves closer, blocking Dean's view of the room. Or maybe blocking the room's view of Dean. Either way, Dean's blocked in. He very deliberately doesn't move away because this is his _brother_.

"Something like that, I think." He takes a breath. "Look for a hex bag."

"Where?" Sam asks before he answers himself; "The kitchen is the logical place because that's where the spell kicked in. The locals would've been all over it, though."

"So we look where they wouldn't think to," Dean responds and that's exactly what they do. They look in the cupboards—the ones containing dishes as well as the ones containing food—and they look in and around the oven and the dishwasher. At least Sam looks around; Dean mostly leans against the counter and tries not to puke from the pain in his gut. He hates healing.

"Yahtzee," Sam exhales, bending his huge frame to pull at a ribbon sticking out from under the fridge. It doesn't budge. He pushes the fridge forward and gets the hex bag, holding it in triumph. Dean smiles back while wondering if he can convince Sam that knowing the names of the witches is part of his 'vision'. Not likely, he decides.

Now he has to get back down those fucking stairs.

* * *

  
Dean makes Sam bring him back to the motel, claiming his stomach hurt, which it does, but not as bad as he'd made out. He actually wants to do some research into how they can banish a demon of Lilith's age and strength. So he suggests, casually, that they could use some provisions knowing that Sam, in his overprotective nurse mode, will run off to the nearest Winn-Dixie. Cheap tactic to use on an easy target, but Dean doesn't have the energy to be creative.

While Sam's out getting supplies, he hits a couple of his favorite sites. Filled with ancient arcane lore and crap, two of the sites are hosted by True Believers. The other one handles the information like it's all a big joke. Of course, it's the one that's fully indexed and searchable. It also lacks the eye-searing neon colors, for which Dean's eyes thank him.

Dean rejects, with great reluctance, a neo-wiccan tract that utilizes the summer solstice and nudity. It's fall and the results are unproven. He similarly rejects an eighteenth-century ritual involving nine virgins and cannibalism, but without the reluctance. Then he hears the Impala pull up outside so he erases the history and closes the browser and tries not to wonder why he's hiding his activities from his brother.

By the time Sam enters with two plastic bags of supplies, he's lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It's quiet between them as Sam puts the food and beer in the room's small fridge. Dean follows his brother's movements as he opens a beer then the laptop and finally the hexbag.

He doesn't want to go to sleep again. Too many fucking dreams when he's sleeping, so he breathes and tries not to scratch.

"Don't scratch," Sam says, like he can see out his ears, and Dean obediently stops. Sam's leg is jiggling like one of those dashboard hula girls.

The younger man turns in his chair to face Dean. "You were right; we're definitely on a witch hunt."

Dean grunts an absent agreement—he's still trying to figure how to do the big reveal without his brother calling bullshit.

"This isn't your typical hex bag," Sam continues, picking up a dried flower from the bag. "This is goldthread, an herb that's been extinct for two hundred years. This," he holds up the coin, "looks like a real Celtic coin, like six-hundred-years-old real. This is the kicker, though." He holds up a small, charred stick-like thing.

"Bone?" Dean asks.

Sam nods. "The charred metacarpal bone of a newborn baby." Dean grimaces. "Relax. It's at least a hundred years old."

"Doesn't make it better, man," Dean sighs. He'd forgotten about the bone, but it's his way in. "So who have we got as potential Luke-haters?"

"I talked to the wife and she seems on the level."

"How about the baby-sitter?" Casual, casual, casual…

Sam nods excitedly. "That was a good call. They _do_ have a babysitter." He looks at his notes, "And she's not as wholesome as she made herself out to be when she applied for the job. Tracy Davis has got a temper. She got a warning from some mall cops and she's been written up twice at her school for having 'violent altercations' with one of her teachers."

Dean knows this is his chance. "Which one?"

"Which teacher?" Sam asks. When Dean nods confirmation he looks at his files. "Um… Don Harding, the art teacher, both times."

"Art teacher, huh?" Dean hopes he sounds innocently curious. "What do we know about him?"

"Uh…" the younger hunter clicks open a few files. "Huh." He sits back in surprise. "He transferred in at the same time as Tracy showed up." He clicks through more screens. "And he's from the same town."

"Coincidence? I don't think so," Dean says from his bed. "That bone you found. How hot would the oven have to be to char it like that?"

Sam does his Google-fu. "About five hundred degrees Celsius; too hot for a kitchen stove."

"How about a pottery kiln?"

Sam smirks. "They're in it together."

"Yahtzee," Dean agrees. "And if your research is correct they have to kill someone today. We stop the death, we stop the ritual."

"Which one do we watch?" Sam asks, "Because there's no way I'm letting you behind the wheel. You're paler than those sheets—and they're not very clean."

Dean lifts his head and twists to get a look at them: Sam's right. He lets his head drop, uncaring. "I vote for Tracy. As an emancipated teen she has a lot more freedom and a lot fewer eyes watching her. Today is, whadyacallit, Devil's Night, right?" Sam nods. "I bet she's going to a party."

"Huh," Sam grunts. "No bet."

* * *

  
They decide to put on their Fed suits to confront her. Sam tries to talk Dean out of coming: he should stay, heal up. Dean just gives him a flat look and levers himself carefully off the bed. It's hard for Sam to stop himself from helping his brother, but the only thing that would happen is that he'd get his hand snapped off. That it's normal for Dean to be snarky when healing doesn't reassure Sam at all, because usually Dean does better than this. Usually he shrugs off injuries quicker. Of course, Sam explains to himself, usually Dean hasn't spent the equivalent of forty years in Hell and hasn't been stabbed _by his brother_. Either one could explain why he's a little slower bouncing back.

He decides he needs a shower and knows that it's another retreat. He does need one, though; he's been sweating like he's got his own personal raincloud hovering. And he's got the shakes. It took him three tries to hit ctrl-F because his fingers were twitching. It was better in the car. Between the engine and the radio and the soothing familiarity of it, he'd been better able to maintain.

He looks at himself in the mirror and admits that Ruby had lied to him. About the blood, at least. He's still not ready to agree with Dean about killing Lilith, but Ruby had definitely lied about her blood being safe. It hadn't been safe. It was addictive and now he's suffering withdrawals, and if she popped up in front of him right now and offered up a vein, he'd have a hard time saying no.

He lets his head drop against the mirror.

He's fucked up.

He's fucked up. Dean's fucked up. They're hunting two powerful witches to stop them before they raise one of the most evil demons ever known. The world is heading toward Armageddon and angels expect them to stop all of it.

'What else can they pile on?' he wonders with a sigh.

He finds out when he exits the bathroom in nothing but the thin motel towel and finds Castiel and some other guy, a big black dude who glares at him as if he's body lice. "Sam Winchester," the new guy—probably an angel, Sam thinks—acknowledges the hunter's entrance. "Glad to see you've ceased your extracurricular activities," he sneers before turning away to look out the window. "See that you keep it that way."

"Dean?" he asks cautiously.

"Yeah," Dean answers voice tight with anger. It doesn't help calm Sam down any. "So Castiel you already know. The other guy is Uriel. He's a 'specialist'."

Sam recognizes that tone. "What does he specialize in?" he asks, though he's got a pretty good idea.

"If we can't stop the witches from raising Sam Hain, he's going to wipe out the whole town." Which is the explanation Sam was expecting but it's still heart-stopping to hear.

"That's it?" Sam stutters in protest because there's no way. "That's your plan, you're gonna smite the whole friggin' town?" No way. No frigging way.

It's Castiel who answers. "We're out of time, this witch has to die; the seal must be saved." His voice is subdued, as if he regrets what he's saying.

"There are over a thousand people here," Sam points out, thinking it will make them reconsider. After all, they are the frigging _good_ guys!

"One thousand two hundred fourteen," Uriel interrupts. His voice is calm, as if he's counting toothpicks.

Sam glares at his back. "And you're willing to kill them all? You can't do that," he says and even he doesn't know whether he's ordering or pleading. "I mean, you're _angels_. Aren't you supposed to… You're supposed to show mercy."

"Says who?" The dark angel glances over his shoulder and Sam shivers at how cold his eyes are, how far removed from anything human. "This isn't the first time I've–" he pauses dramatically "–purified a city."

"We must protect the Seal," Castiel says firmly. "Too many have fallen already."

"That won't be necessary," Dean says. "We know who the witches are. We know where they are and we've got a plan."

"Yeah," Sam breaks in eagerly, upset by what he sees in Uriel. "We'll stop them before they summon anyone. Your seal won't be broken and no one has to die."

"We have our orders," Castiel says and he's staring at Dean. In his eyes, Sam can read apology, shame, and… hope?

From his spot by the window, Uriel exudes impatience. He turns around, marching to stand next to his fellow angel. "Castiel, we're wasting time with these mud monkeys." His voice drips contempt and dislike.

Okay, Sam thinks, that was unfriendly. He finds he's shifted his stance into a defensive one. With just a towel around his waist, it's probably ridiculous, but something about the dark-skinned angel makes it necessary.

Dean doesn't shift. He's tense, but it's anger, not fear. "You're not going to do anything, junkless, because if you smite this town then we're going with it. See, I figure I'm worth something to your bosses, since you angels went to so much trouble busting me out of Hell, which means if you wanna waste me, go ahead. See how the big guys dig that."

Holy shit, Sam thinks. Dean's facing down a friggin' _angel_.

Uriel's brow lowers and he takes another, more menacing, step forward. "I will drag you out of here myself."

"To do that, you'll have to kill me." Dean smiles mean and sharp. "Then you've got the same problem."

Sam can practically see the big angel vibrating with rage. "I will not allow you—" he growls and this is it. Sam's going to have to watch his brother get killed again.

Castiel holds up a hand and it freezes the other angel in place. "Uriel, you know our orders." The black angel shifts and sneers before moving away. "Dean, I suggest you move quickly."

"I know what's at stake, Cas," the hunter responds. He glances at Sam, "We both do. We'll call if we need you," Dean says pointedly.

Castiel looks at Dean. To Sam, it's as if he's trying to see into his brother's soul. Dean doesn't flinch and finally, the angel nods cautiously. "Very well. I look forward to hearing from you."

Between one blink and the next the angels are gone and there's nothing left but the faint sound of wings beating. Sam rounds on his brother. "What the hell were you thinking?" He knows that his anger at Dean is misplaced and is probably—mostly—caused by going cold turkey, but he practically dared an angel to kill him, right here, right in front of him. "Do you want to get yourself killed?"

Dean's staring at him, eyes hooded and hidden, but at that comment he barks out a laugh. "No, Sam, I don't want to get killed, but it kind of happens anyway."

That doesn't help Sam control his fury. "Why do you always have to be the hero?"

It's an accusation and Sam knows it and it makes him feel petty and small and jealous like when he was a little kid and they'd spar behind wherever they were living and Dad would praise Dean but not him, never him. He takes a breath pulling himself back into a sort of calm. "Why do we have to save everyone," he asks. "We could let the angels take care of this, go keep looking for Lilith…"

It wasn't a serious suggestion but Dean's already shaking his head. "We can do it, Sam."

Now it's Sam's turn to laugh bitterly. "Yeah, sure. You're injured—don't think I don't see you hunching over your gut—and I'm strung out—" Shit, he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He stares in wide-eyed horror at Dean, waiting for the rant and the lecture.

"Yup, we're pretty fucked up," Dean gives him a lopsided smile. "Know what else we are?" Sam closes his mouth and mutely shakes his head. "Too stubborn to give up. Now go get dressed before that towel gives up trying to cover your fat ass and falls off. I love ya, man, but I don't want to see that."

And they're okay again. At least for a while.


	6. Chapter 6

They find Tracy Davis walking down the street dressed as a cheerleader. "She looks pretty good," Dean says more because Sam expects him to say something like that when a female who looks like Tracy walks down the street in a skimpy cheerleading outfit. What he actually thinks is that short skirt or no, witches are still skeevy—a charred bone from a newborn is just fucking gross.

"Two words, Dean: jail bait."

"Four words," he shoots back. "Six hundred years old." Sam chuckles, which is what Dean wanted. They're both trying as hard as they can to pretend everything is normal while knowing damn well it's not. If he needed a hint at how bad it is, Sam's furiously tapping fingers are clue number four. Sam has admitted to being addicted to demon's blood. Before, in Dead Dean the First's history, Sam had to drain a demon right in front of Bobby and Dean, get locked in Bobby's panic room, escape, and let Ruby trick him into killing Lilith, which opened Lucifer's cage, before he thought it was a problem. Even so, it wasn't until God rescued them from the convent that Sam had admitted it was an addiction.

Damn! His brother is stubborn.

Dean's going to take this early awareness as a good sign.

Tracy gets nearer and Sam stands up and blocks her way. He flashes his badge, "Ms. Davis; Tracy Davis?" he says and she stops. Dean stands up slightly behind her so she's blocked in. "I'm Agent Abbot with the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Seger. We have a few questions about the death of Luke Wallace."

"Who?"

Sam's lips lift but it's not a smile. "The man you babysit for."

"Ohh," she says, trying for innocent and failing. "I always dealt with Mrs. Wallace. I didn't really know him." She smiles and she looks young and blonde and pretty in a wholesome, American way but they know she's also ancient and evil and dangerous.

"You knew him enough to put a hex bag in his kitchen to kill him," Sam states coldly.

"What?"

"We'd like you to come with us," Dean interjects smoothly. They need to get the witch off the street before they do anything, and bringing up the fact that they know she's a witch? Probably not the best way to do it.

It's too late though. Tracy is looking at them with suspicion. "I'd like to see your badges again," she says. Sam scowls, obviously ready to force the issue, but Dean bumps him to shut him up then he pulls out his 'badge' with calm confidence. He knows it'll stand up to even the most intense scrutiny. His brother may have the brains—when he chooses to use them—but Dean has the skills. Besides, she doesn't have the time or privacy to cast a revealing spell, or whatever she'd call that shit.

Tracy takes the IDs and examines them; she runs her fingers over them but they're plasticized with just hints of bumps in the seal… just like a real badge. The hunter sends up a silent prayer of gratitude to Victor Henrikson. The guy had deserved a lot better than to have had his wallet lifted on the same day Lilith killed him but demon wars were a bitch.

They're not enough to convince her, though.

Perhaps, Dean admits, six-hundred years probably provides enough experience to make an evil person cautious.

"I think," she says slowly, "that I'd like to have a lawyer present at any conversation we have. So, unless you have a warrant, we're done."

"Do you have a lawyer we can contact to arrange an interview?" Sam asks, back to being calm and professional. There's a slight tremor in his hands, a tenseness in his jaw, and Dean knows it isn't caused by being thwarted by Ancient Tracy.

"I don't have a lawyer but I'll get one," the cocky brat tone is back.

With a glance at his stressed-out brother, Dean hands over the business card he'd printed earlier. "Once you've picked one out, have him–"

"–or her," she interjects.

"Or _her_ ," Dean accepts "give us a call."

Tracy picks the card from his fingers and her eyes slit with calculation. "I'll have my lawyer call you," she says, but what she means is she'll have a hex bag in their motel room before midnight.

She flicks the card against her chin and gives them a triumphant smile. Dean knows that if the number was theirs she could track them with it, find out where they were staying and plant a hex bag in their room, or just throw a nasty spell their way. Dean hasn't made that mistake. The number _is_ real but if she calls it she'll be led into the morass of the federal government's self-help electronic directories—impersonal and untraceable. So Dean just smiles back at her and pulls his brother out of the way. They watch as she saunters down the street.

"She killed him," Sam says and he's radiating fury.

"I know, dude." Dean tries to soothe his little brother. "I know. We'll get her."

"Yeah? How?" Sam spits at him. "She's gonna kill somebody and we could've stopped her."

"Well, maybe we could've done something if you hadn't told her we knew she was a witch," Dean points out coldly, already heading towards the Impala.

"Are you saying it's my fault?" And Sam's right there, in his face, angry and jittery with withdrawal and ready to fight fucking Gandhi he's so strung out. A memory explodes in his brain, of Sam throwing him into a mirror, kneeling above him, strangling him. He was so angry… Dean rubs a hand over his eyes, down his face, trying to massage the pain away, trying to find the control not to provoke Sam because, right now, with each of them feeling the way they do it wouldn't take much for Sam to bring him down, and maybe, this time he'd stay down. "I'm saying now we move on to plan B."

"We have a plan B?" Sam asks and his tone is bewildered.

"Yeah, Sam. We find out which one of her friends has parents away this week because that's the kid that's having the party." He pulls a list out of his duffel. "Start calling."

Sam gives him The Look, but he does grab the list and pull out his phone, and that's what matters. Sam has always sounded more trustworthy over the phone than Dean.

Luck's on their side for once. It doesn't take them long to discover where the big Halloween party is. They wait across the street until they see Tracy arrive then Dean phones in a noise complaint and they let the local cops break up the party before anybody dies. They walk past a shame-faced kid with tire treads painted on his face getting a dressing-down from an older cop. Turns out, the officer is the boy's uncle and he knows the kid wasn't allowed to have a party while his parents were away. Dean hears "when I tell your father" before he and Sam slip past them with a flash of their fake badges.

Small town trust, gotta love it.

There's a bucket of water with apples floating on top that causes more of Dead Dean's memories to push forward. He rubs his temple. It's like having pins and needles in his brain and it makes him a little nauseous every time it happens. A young officer, carrying a bin of confiscated booze out to his patrol car, bumps him and pulls Dean out of his daze. Sam's already searching the sitting area, lifting the cushions off the chairs. Dean goes over to the dance area. The hex bag wasn't here last time but things could be different.

They are.

"It's not here," Sam announces after an hour's fruitless searching.

"I can see that."

"She was here, though. We saw her," the younger Winchester continues as if Dean hadn't spoken. He's still jittery and his pupils are wide. Dean remembers what Sam was like in that other timeline, having hallucinations and seizures until they had to strap him to the bed in Bobby's panic room. But that was after a _year_ of drinking Ruby's blood. This time it was only four months, so it shouldn't be that bad… should it?

Maybe, he thinks, after this they should head to Bobby's, just in case. They should probably do that anyway if they're going to find a spell or a ritual to banish Lilith.

"Dean," Sam shoves him to get his attention and Dean is forced to twist to keep his balance.

"Ow, fuck," he presses a hand to his still healing wound.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam mutters and Dean's sure he is sorry; he just doesn't know his strength right now. He waves a forgiving hand but Sam's already rambling on. "…if she didn't kill someone here, she'll do it someplace else, right? How're we going to figure out her next target, huh? We're out of options, Dean."

"You're right," Dean agrees and it startles the younger hunter into silence. "She could plant that thing in a mall and we won't know until they announce the death on the news."

"That's… yeah, what I meant. Shit." The last word is whispered as Sam presses the heels of his hand into his eyes, trying to gather himself together, calm himself down… Deny the fact that he's totally strung out.

"So we go to the teacher's place and do whatever we need to do." Before Dean's finished speaking Sam's heading to the door. His steps are jerky and over-controlled. Dean watches and wishes he knew how to make this easier on his brother but there's no place on the internet to Google 'recovery aids for people suffering from demon's blood addiction.' He's been keeping the guy supplied with water and Gatorade, nuts and jerky. Dean hopes it's helping but so far he ain't seeing it.

Now, he's tired and he's sore and his brother is vibrating with need. They have to get this done and quickly. With another deep breath he packs it all down and thinks about the job.

There's a crackle from a police radio coming from the senior deputy at the boy's house and the place is quiet enough that Dean doesn't have to strain to hear. There's been a suspicious death at the corner market.

"Shit," he mutters. Sam looks at him in silent question and Dean realizes that his brother was so wrapped up in his own body he hadn't heard the report. "Looks like sweet little Tracy stopped for snacks."

"What?" Sam asks, surprised. "Where?"

Dean nods his head at the young officer, "Wherever he's going." He sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "Let's go find the hex bag then we'll go visit 'just Don' at home. He's got to have an altar we can fuck up, right?"

* * *

  
When they pull up at Don Harding's house the next morning, it doesn't need any decorating for Halloween. It's old, ill-kept, covered in vines, and rose bushes that look dead, rustling menacingly in the light autumn breeze. Sam wonders if it's the neighborhood's unofficial haunted house. The only thing missing for it to qualify is a broken window or two and Dean takes care of that within minutes by jimmying the latch of one in the living room. It's just as well it's a school day, because Dean wasn't subtle, didn't even try to stay out of sight.

Dean holds up the window and waves Sam in. Sam's surprised until he remembers Dean's stitches. Maybe his big brother is finally admitting he's not indestructible? Then he snorts: forget Lucifer and Michael, if Dean ever admitted anything like that, _that_ would be the Apocalypse.

Dean pokes him and brings his focus back to the present. Shit, he can't afford to zone out like that. He reads concern in Dean's eyes. _Are you alright?_ they ask. He hides his shaky hands and gives Dean a little head-dip that says _Not great but good enough for this_.

He kind of expects Dean to call him on it, but Dean doesn't, just nods and waves at the window again. Sam nods back and crawls through.

First thing he smells is stale air. The second is old blood. There's also a hint of goldthread that tells Sam they've come to the right place. He goes to the door to let his brother in. Dust motes float in the air, glowing in the early autumn sun.

"Basement?" Dean asks and Sam nods because that's where most people hide the stuff they don't want visitors to see. Dean has his gun out and he creeps down the stairs cautiously. Sam, laden with the duffel, is even more careful. They're sure that Don is at school. They're not so sure where Tracy is. The light goes on the same second Dean calls "Clear".

The basement is unfinished, bare cement for walls, sealed cement for the floor. Over on one side, prosaic and ordinary, are the washer and dryer. There's even a half-full basket of clothes awaiting attention. There's boxes in the corner labeled 'pictures' and 'early versions'. And, on the far side, beyond a half-finished wall, is the altar. It's an old-fashioned kitchen worktable, plain and sturdy wood, that's been covered with an embroidered cloth. The patterns in the fabric are arcane symbols that Sam has a hard time recognizing as anything other than wrong. Wrongwrong _wrong;_ like the feeling he had the first time Ruby had offered him her blood.

He's overwhelmed with a full-body memory of the smell of her blood, the taste of it, and the zing it gave him as it tangled with his own. It was good, so good.

"Can we dismantle it safely?" Dean asks. A legitimate question as the witches are running a spell through the items on it.

Sam gives his head a shake because he really needs to be focused on the present. Focus, focus, focus, he chants.

He looks at the supplies more carefully. There's goldthread, coins and babies' bones on the shelves close to the unbleached linen squares used to hold the spell items, so he knows this is the right spell—like there was any doubt. There's also a horned goat's skull, a dried pumpkin, some candles and a couple standard-looking athames, blades gleaming in the low light. There's a twenty on it that Luke Wallace probably gave to Tracy the last time they interacted, just as the pop bottle would've been the cashier's. The money and the bottle could either be trophies, or focus-points.

Given that Dean's fake business card is there, Sam's going with option B.

Sam picks it up. "We need to look for a hex bag when we get back to the room," he says. Dean doesn't argue. Sam looks at the book, lying open on one side of the altar. Fucking _Gaelic_ _?_

"What?" Dean says, picking up on Sam's emotions. He strides over to the table to look over Sam's shoulder. Sam ignores his nosiness with the ease of old practice.

"The spell's in Gaelic. It's been a while _. Impigh againn Tiarna leat_ ," he mutters as he runs his finger over the words and the English filters up: We beg you, lord.

As if that phrase was a key, the rest of the incantation is easier to understand. Unfortunately, what he reads isn't good. "Shit."

"What?" Dean repeats more impatiently.

"The spell's in place," Sam shares the bad news. "All that's left is the final sacrifice tonight at midnight."

"What if we burn the altar?" Dean suggests.

"I'd rather you didn't do that."

The voice comes from behind them. Dean already has his gun out as he turns to face the threat, but before he can get a shot off Don Harding flings out a hand. " _Ghortaigh_ _!_ "

Oh shit, Sam has time to think, then the spell hits them: pain in the stomach radiating out through his body, grabbing his ribs and stealing his breath. All his muscles lock, like his whole body is a giant charley horse. He can barely breathe, can hardly see, but he can feel his pulse thundering like acid in his veins. Even over the pounding agony, Sam can hear Harding approach, walking from the steps and across the cement floor to where he and Dean are writhing like caterpillars pinned to the ground.

He can hear the witch because the guy is talking in a smarmy, triumphant voice, "Well, this is unexpected. Tracy said some guys were on to her. FBI agents, she said, but you're not Feds. Who are you?" He's looking down at them, hand outspread, forcing his spell into them and making them hurt. Sam wants to kill him but instead it's all he can do to groan.

"No answer? Too bad. However, I'm sure we can put you to good use." He takes out a cell phone and flips it open. He calls Tracy, telling her to get over to his place.

"So what you going to do to us, Don?" Dean gasps out the question.

"Well," he muses. "As great an honor as being the final sacrifice is, it's one both Tracy and I would be willing to forgo. Since the spell doesn't specifically call for us, and since you boys were kind enough to stop by, I think we'll use one of you instead."

Sam looks at him in helpless fury. "You son of a bitch," he mutters.

"Actually, my mother was a good Catholic woman, at least in public. More money in being Roman Catholic, easier too; but you couldn't _see_ the Catholic god, couldn't hear him, couldn't touch him. Not like our gods, _my_ gods.

"Not a god," Sam gasps in argument. "A demon. From Hell."

Don snorts, "He wasn't _from_ Hell. He was sent there, trapped there by the adherents of the Roman church. After all, what better way to make your mark in the new religion than to banish the gods of the old? Pátraic of Dalriada was one of those. He hated our beliefs because they hadn't done anything for him except make him a slave. But the new church, the Roman church, promised to change all that for him."

"Pátraic," Sam says in disbelief, "Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland?"

" _Saint!_ " Don's voice is curdled with derisive anger. "It wasn't _snakes_ that bitter old zealot banished from Éire. He turned the tribes against the old ways, the old gods, made them believe they were evil. But they weren't. They were just larger reflections of ourselves."

"Whatever Sam Hain used to be, he isn't anymore," Dean says. "You know that, right? Hell will have changed him." There's no particular emphasis in his words, like they're not important, just a way of passing the time. Sam stares at his brother, wondering how he can be so calm.

"It doesn't matter. He's still our god and he'll come back to us, return to what he was."

"You really believe that?" Dean asks in surprise. "Even though he's been in Hell for over a thousand years?"

Don looks down at him, sneering. "Of course. It's not faith if you don't believe during the hard times as well."

And Dean smiles, soft and sad. "So I've heard," he says, and Sam knows his brother is thinking of Layla Rourke, dead for two years of a brain tumor he could've let her be cured of if it hadn't meant somebody else dying in her place. Dean used to swing by her grave whenever they were in the area, leaving flowers and protections. Those visits always left him introspective and quiet.

There isn't much chatting after that. Don keeps his hand out, keeps the spell running through them, forcing them to the floor. Sam's relieved to see strain and sweat lines form on the witch's face. The spell must be taking something out of him, which means, if they're lucky, he'll slip before Tracy gets here and then either he or Dean can take him out. He looks at his brother to try and communicate with him silently but he doesn't catch Dean's eyes. Instead, he sees Dean's shirt dark with blood. The stain is big and glistening and the hand Dean has covering it is red. It's obvious the wound has opened up again and his brother is bleeding, badly.

His gaze snaps up to Dean's face—pale, too pale—and Dean's looking back at him. Sam stares at him in horror… and Dean winks. What the… He frowns the question at his brother but Dean's shut his eyes. Over the drone of the furnace and the water heater, and the creaking of the old house, Sam can hear Metallica being hummed off-key. Either his brother is okay with dying or he has a plan. Although he suspects the former, he decides to be like Don and have faith it's the latter.

Tracy shows up, calling Don's name as she clomps down the stairs. "You still have them?" she asks.

"No, I let them get away." He rolls his eyes. "Of course I still have them."

"No need to be an ass," she snaps back, walking fully into the basement. She looks so much like a normal teenage girl—jeans, pretty shirt with a delicate pattern—that Sam feels like he's hallucinating. Or it could just be a side effect of prolonged pain. This is worse, way worse, than when he broke his wrist and it wouldn't stop throbbing.

"Well, well, well. Agent Seger and Agent Abbott," she smiles at them. "I guess I don't have to worry about planting that hex bag now."

"Guess not," Dean smiles back. Then his face hardens. "Cas," he says loudly "any time."

The air thickens and fills with the sound of wings beating and Castiel is suddenly there with his messy hair and his battered trench coat. He has a long silver knife that gleams even in the basement's dim light. He stabs Tracy through the back and she lights up, faintly, nothing like what demons do—like Ruby had—but enough for Sam to know that the knife is supernatural and the witch's soul is dead.

She looks surprised as she dies.

"Tracy!" Don calls and he finally raises his hand and points it somewhere else. Sam gasps as he feels the spell lift and the end of pain is intoxicating at first. Then he just wants to hurl.

" _Ghortaigh!_ " Don throws the spell at Castiel. The angel shrugs it off or doesn't even feel it. Don looks frightened for the first time. "What are you?"

Castiel steps closer to the witch. "I am an angel of the Lord," he says as he shoves his knife deep into Don Harding's chest. "I'm sorry, but Sam Hain cannot rise." The witch's soul flashes as he dies.

"Cas?" Sam manages to say. He feels like he's breathing around broken glass. "How did you…" How did you know we were in trouble, he means. How did you know where we were? He can't manage to say all that but it doesn't matter; the angel hears him anyway.

"Your brother ordered me to await his call." Castiel kneels down and places two fingers on his forehead and Sam's pain and the nausea, all of it, disappears.

"He did?"

The angel turns to do the same thing to his brother. He murmurs a confirmation. "At the motel, he said he would call." It's not exactly how Sam remembers it but, whatever. It got Castiel here in time to save them and the town.

"Your brother is not well. He has lost a lot of blood." Sam knows that already; he's been watching the dark spot on Dean's shirt grow steadily larger for the last God-knows how long.

"Can't you heal him?" he asks because, hello? _Angel._ Which should mean all sorts of nifty heavenly superpowers.

"Healing is not one of my strengths," Castiel says cautiously. "However, I have done what I can."

"Awesome," Dean groans as he rolls onto his back. He has his hands pressed to the injury but now they're rubbing in small soothing circles rather than trying to hold his insides together.

Castiel straightens and moves to the altar and Sam thinks that it's odd how harmless he looks with his bland clothing and loosened tie. Then the angel stretches his hand over the altar and grinds out some incantation that makes it burst into flames. It burns blue and white and pink. It burns without heat and without damaging anything but the items on the altar.

"Don't burn the book, man," Dean calls out, or tries to, but his voice is faint and thready. "It might have info we could use."

"It is evil," Castiel states.

"So are the things we hunt," Dean points out and the angel pauses. He glances back at Dean then gives a small nod. The fire engulfing the book dies out and the rest of the altar dissolves into ash around it.

Sam sways to his knees. "Dean, do you need a hospital?" He thinks Dean might need a hospital. He doesn't wait for an answer, just peels the wet fabric away from where he pushed the knife in all those days ago and examines the skin. He has to wipe the red away. It's half-dried and tacky and doesn't want to be removed but Sam cleans it up enough to see that the cut has closed. The stitches are still there, broken and dangling like a badly done seam. The flesh underneath is angry and red, but the skin is sealed.

"How does it feel?" he asks because Castiel's magic touch left him feeling pretty good.

"Fucking peachy," Dean mocks. "Just give me a minute and I'll run a marathon."

"I'll be more impressed if you can get up the stairs without taking us both down," Sam says with a chuckle. He gets his arm under Dean's shoulders and levers them both upright with a skill born of many years of practice. It's sad how easy it is. It's also sad how supporting Dean drains him. They won. He should feel better than this.

"The book," Dean reminds him before they've even gotten started.

Before he can do anything the grimoire is thrust into his hands and Castiel is taking Dean from him. "I will carry him." Sam's about to say something about Dean's size compared to Castiel's but the angel just dips his knees and picks up the hunter as easily as Sam could pick up a child of six.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Cas. Put me down!" Dean orders even as Castiel walks up the stairs, angling his burden carefully to avoid hitting his head or his feet against the walls. "I'm not a freaking girl. I can walk."

"Your injury has weakened you. To deny it is foolish," the angel rebuts. "I will release you to walk on your own once we have reached level ground."

"You look good like that," Sam teases as he tiredly follows them up the stairs. Dean tries to flip him off but his finger barely straightens halfway before he's snoring into the angel's shoulder. He wakes up a little as he's put into the back seat and drifts to the surface a couple times on the way back to the hotel—once because of potholes and once because he smells sulfur—but both times Cas touches his forehead and tells him to rest so he does because they won, right? The angels are gone. The town is saved. Life is good. Yay.

Except there's a countdown ticking away in his head saying 'too slow, too slow, too slow' and a scary monster waiting at the end of the line if he fails.

He won't fail, he assures himself. He can't.

* * *

  
The next day they're in no condition to travel, although if Dean's honest, he's the one who can't sit in the car for however long it would take to get to wherever they should go next. Just the thought has his guts cramping in protest.

The other reason to stay put is that they have no new purpose: no immediate goal so no direction to travel.

That's okay with Dean. He's spending his recovery time re-reviewing his other selves' memories, trying to dig out more information. The more he looks at those memories the more he remembers, and the more he remembers the more he thinks they should go to Winston, Minnesota—although that doesn't sound quite right. He doesn't have all the details yet but there were ghouls and some kid who was important… A boy named Michael, he thinks, but that doesn't sound quite right either. He remembers it had something to do with baseball, so now he's sitting in the park across from their motel, enjoying the sunshine and the sound of children playing, trying to connect Minnesota, Michael and baseball, but other memories are intruding. Watching Sam play soccer, cheering him on extra loud because Dad wasn't there to do it. Watching Ben play baseball with Lisa's hand wrapped cozily in his. Her hands were always cold except when they were on him…

The sound of rustling feathers announces the arrival of an angel. "Dean."

"Hey, Cas." He looks up at the unassuming figure that's blocking out the sun. "Take a load off."

Cas' head tilts slightly and Dean realizes that he's puzzled by the term. Dean had forgotten that this Cas doesn't have his future version's understanding of human slang. "Have a seat," he explains and gestures to the park bench placed at an angle to his own. Castiel sits as directed and looks out over the busy playground. There's an elementary school nearby and it's recess, so the park is loud but happy.

"Sounds good, doesn't it." He glances at the angel. "Would've been a shame to erase all of them."

Guileless blue eyes stare back, questioning, assessing. "You asked for help. That was unexpected."

Dean keeps his eyes on the crowded tire swing. He can feel the heat in his cheeks. "Yeah, well. I knew how important stopping Sam Hain was. Something like that… What he would've done to those kids," he jerks his chin at the full playground. "My pride was a bit less important."

Castiel's silent but his gaze is still on the hunter, still assessing, examining. "Something about you has changed since I raised you out of Hell. There are–" he pauses, looking for the word, "–layers that weren't there before." Dean opens his mouth to make some reply. Cas beats him to it. "And being injured was not the catalyst," he continues. "It happened before then."

Dean can't maintain his shields, not if he looks at Castiel. The angel sees too much, at least that's how he remembers him, so the hunter looks over the playground and focuses on the feel of the sun against his face. He works on ignoring the deep ache in his stomach that's the newly re-healed injury. He concentrates on keeping his mind blank because this Castiel is still Zachariah's creature, wavering but not yet over on their side and he can't afford to forget that.

"I know what I'm doing, Cas," he offers.

"Yes," the angel agrees, "And that is also different." Wings rustle and Dean isn't surprised to see an empty bench when he glances over. A little girl's staring open-mouthed at the spot. She blinks at Dean and then runs off to her where her mother is waiting. Dean swallows a smile at the disappearing pig-tails. No need to ask if other people can see angels then. It's somehow reassuring to not be so special as to be the only one. Joan of Arc had never been one of his heroes.

He leans back on the bench, tipping his head up. It isn't Winston, Minnesota, he thinks. Windom. It's Windom, Minnesota and the boy's name is Adam. Adam Mulligan, Milligan, and there's something about him…

"What is it?" Sam asks his brother soon after he enters their room. A silent, thoughtful ghost that has only a passing resemblance to the brother he remembers from before. Hell started it, but Sam… What Sam did helped it along, but now it's something more. Maybe it's the vision thing, he thinks. Dean never was happy with all the psychic stuff. He's probably not adjusting well to being one.

He's turned in his chair, looking at Dean, knowing something happened out in the park but Dean's not looking at him. He's over by the coffee pot, drinking down another cup and staring out the small window. So he pushes it. "Dean. What's up?"

"Um, yeah." Green eyes glance at him, sharp and bright. "You ever wonder if Dad ever, you know, messed around."

"God, no. Eww," Sam rears back, recoiling in body and mind. It's an instinctive reaction that soon gives way to the thought that it would at least mean the old man had been human after all.

"Think about it now," Dean orders, twitching his shoulder, and Sam realizes that the subject makes his big brother extremely uncomfortable. He swallows his smile: time for a little fun…

"Okay, I'm thinking about Dad having sex." Dean flinches and Sam grins openly. "I'm guessing there's a reason you're inflicting images of naked, sweaty Dad on our psyches."

That one gets Dean good. His older brother curls in on himself a little, face tight, before shrugging it off. He turns to look at Sam. "What would you say if I said that we have a brother out there?"

Sam thinks about it, thinks about Dad being ten years older than he is now; of being unattached and on the road, like they are now. "I'd say that I'm surprised it's only one?"

Dean tenses and hunches over even more.

"I'd also say that you have more problem with it than I do."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. He peers into his coffee cup as if it will give him the words. "I know Dad wasn't perfect—" Sam can't help it: he snorts. Dean ignores him. "—but it still feels like he was unfaithful to Mom. Stupid, I know. Mom would've been dead for ten years or so."

"This is another one of your vision things?" Sam asks, but he knows it is. "You had a vision of a brother. And he's in danger?"

"Yeah," Dean says again. "If we don't save him, he and his mom are going to be eaten by ghouls."

Sam kicks the chair across from him in invitation and demand. "I think you're going to have to explain a bit more. In detail."

An hour later they're on their way to Minnesota.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean had planned to reach Waterloo, Iowa before stopping, but halfway there his stamina gives out. He's been chugging coffee and sports drinks trying to replace the liquid he lost, but he's still tired and losing focus. Last thing he needs to do is drive them into a tree so he takes the next turn-off to wherever.

"Dean?" Sam asks from beside him. It's almost a shock hearing his voice; they've both been so quiet.

"I'm done," he replies. "Need to get some decent shut-eye then some decent food."

"I can drive," Sam offers.

Dean snorts. "Not a chance. I'm not trusting the car to a guy jonesing for a hit of demon blood." He says it without rancor or blame, surprising himself, but he supposes he's got so much other stuff he could be upset with Sam about that letting himself get talked into drinking Ruby's blood has dropped low on the list. Either that or he's just too damn tired to care.

"Actually, I'm good," Sam says carefully. "No craving, nothing."

Dean turns to look at him. His eyebrow goes up in disbelief. "Nothing?" Sam holds out his hand to show that it's steady. Dean can't help his grunt of surprise.

"I know. Weird, right?" Sam drops it back on his lap. "Ever since Don… that spell he used, I've been good. Like it pressed all the toxins out of me."

"You _were_ sweating buckets."

Sam grimaces in remembered gross-out. It hadn't been until he tried to get out of the Impala and had had to unstick himself from the leather seat that he'd realized just how much he'd perspired in the hour Don Harding had kept them squirming on the floor. And he'd smelled: sweat tinged with fear, pain and with a faint overtone of sulfur. Even Dean, half comatose from blood loss, had noticed it.

"You think that two wrongs finally made a right?" Dean jokes—weakly, but Sam barks out a laugh.

"Maybe, I dunno," he says. "Whatever the reason, I'll take it."

Dean wants to poke at it, look for the small print because their luck has never run to straightforward, but he refrains. It's the first time Sam hasn't been angry about Dean cutting off his supply, so to speak. Plus some more of his future self's memories have surfaced, of Sam demanding to be treated as a man, a hunter, and not only Dean's little brother. And Dean remembers himself wondering, a couple years from now, if Sam would've stayed away from Ruby and what she offered, if Dean had treated him as he'd asked. Worrying about Sam, trying to guide his steps, is such second nature to Dean that it's hard to let go.

For those reasons, he knows he should let the guy take the wheel. Except Sam also has bags under his eyes the size of Pittsburgh. Dean's not been the only one losing sleep lately.

"Four hours won't kill us," Dean says, keeping his tone casual—a suggestion, not an order and it works because Sam agrees. So they turn into the first motel they see, or rather that Sam sees because Dean's starting to space out a little.

It's a long, one-level L-shape with dark siding and accents that people in the '60s labeled (incorrectly) as Spanish-style. Dean waits in the car, hand unconsciously rubbing at the wound, and looks at the flower boxes set as wheel stops along the edge of the parking lot. There aren't any flowers, only dirt—and cigarette butts that add another level of 'nobody cares' to the place. It's depressing to look at when he has memories of fresh-mown lawns and bright roses sitting in his mind. Lisa, out in gloves and a floppy hat, pulling weeds from her tidy little flower patch. She'd shooed him away when he'd pulled up a pansy or petunia—something with 'p'—thinking it was a weed. Here, weeds would be an improvement.

It's also familiar, he thinks, and he looks harder at the nooks and crannies. Then he snorts. He's stayed at thousands of motels and they're all the freaking same: stale air, hard beds. Impersonal and cold.

He should get a decent picture of him and Sam, put it in a frame, maybe tuck one of Dad's old photos in the corner, and put it out at night. He kind of liked that about staying with Lisa for the year, having actual mementos instead of just memories.

Stupid thing to be thinking about in the middle of a hunt.

Sam climbs back into the car, holding out the room key. He grimaces. "This place charges by the hour so I only got four." Dean groans his agreement of the strategy because hourly rates usually mean stains and smells they'd rather not identify.

It's not until he's getting out of the car that he looks up and sees the motel's sign. In flickering neon it reads 'Toreador Motel' and a cascade of memories overwhelms him. "Ah, hell," he groans.

"What?" Sam asks.

Dean closes the car door with more force than he normally uses on his baby. His heart is beating double-time because this is… this is unfair. What _purpose_ is served by having them turn up in the same town as Chuck Shurley? _None_. "I know where we are," he answers his brother, grabbing their bags out of the back seat.

Christ, he thinks. Now he has to figure out some way of telling Sam about the books.

"In Hicksville, Iowa?"

"Kripke's Hollow," he says. His hand is shaking. He's got both bags in one hand and he lifts the other to close the door and it's fucking _shaking_.

"And?" Sam says, his face and voice full of WTF-edness.

"It's home to Chuck Shurley, better known or, maybe, not known, as the author Carter Edlund." He glares at Sam, cutting off his inevitable next question. "Look him up, geekboy. It'll be fun reading."

Sam looks at him in narrow-eyed enlightenment. "This is another vision thing, isn't it."

"Yahtzee," he snaps out, knowing he sounds angry and bitter.

Sam's just staring at him, staring at him instead of opening the motel room door like he's supposed to, so Dean glares back until Sam finally gets a clue and opens it. Dean barely waits for it to unlatch before he's barging his way through and tossing his bags down on the bed. He knows Sam is staring at him. He knows Sam is starting to get concerned but that's likely to move into pissed off soon. And he knows he should calm down but he fucking _can't_.

"So what's this one about? Do we have to kill something? Rescue someone?"

Destiny is a fucking _lie_ , Dean tells himself. It's a lie and whatever fate the angels are whispering to Chuck he's going to change it into something better.

"Jesus, Sam," he spits before he reins himself in with deep breaths, in-out, rinse and repeat. Not Sam's fault, he tells himself, and wasn't it less than an hour ago he'd decided to treat Sam more like a responsible adult rather than his kid brother? "Sorry, man," he manages to say. "It's just this stinks of angel crap."

Sam nods. "I get it, I get it," he says comfortingly. "Except that I completely don't. What is it about this place that has you so spooked? _Who_ is Chuck Shurley?"

"Chuck Shurley is a Prophet of the Lord," Castiel says from beside Dean and makes the hunter jump. "He is writing what will one day become known as the Winchester Gospels."

Sam's mouth is open. "You're kidding me."

"No, he's really not." Dean's staring at the angel wondering why Cas showed up here and now. He's also thinking he'd really like to grab that fifth of whiskey he had stashed in the trunk.

"How come we've never heard of them?"

"Thankfully, they're not that popular," Dean answers. "Plus the publishing company went out of business."

"The first book was published in 2005," Castiel says without inflection. Dean tries to stop Cas but the angel just keeps going. "It documents the start of your journey: your mother's death, the hunt for the woman in white, your father's disappearance, the death of Jessica Moore." Sam's face turns chalky. "The last published book covers the fight with Lilith in New Harmony and Dean's death."

"That's…that's insane," Sam's face is still pasty but color is returning fast. "How could he know that stuff?"

Castiel tips his head in confusion. "He is a Prophet."

"That would mean that everything we've done, every decision we've made, every action we've taken, was pre-ordained," Sam says with false calm. "There's no way, Cas. No way some second-rate author is dictating our every move from a little burg in the middle of Iowa." Dean can hear the anger simmering under his brother's voice. Oddly enough, it helps calm him down, as if there's only room for one pissed-off Winchester at a time in any given space.

"Actually, this might be a good thing," Dean says slowly, feeling his way through the thought. "Both the angels and the demons had plans for us—an agreed-upon script—but I screwed that up when I killed Ruby. Sam's off the demon blood, so he doesn't feel invincible anymore. He doesn't want to kill Lilith—"

"Yes I do," Sam contradicts him. He pauses then shrugs. "I'm just willing to concede that maybe killing her might not be the best plan, that's all."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to," Dean states. "So, with all these changes, is Chuck even writing anymore? And if he _is_ ," Dean adds before the angel can comment. "Maybe it'll give us an idea of what the angels have planned." He looks at Sam then at Cas, then back to Sam because he's thinking it's a good idea, probably, and this unexpected side trip could turn out to be the validation of all his future selves' gruesome ends. Or it could prove that you really can't fight city hall.

Which reminds him…

"Why are you here, Cas?"

Bright, blue eyes look away in embarrassment. "I was sent to keep an eye on you." Even his voice is tinged with apology. He almost sounds like the Cas that Dead Dean the First had known—practically human. "My superiors suspect you have been receiving information and they want to know from whom."

"How do they know that?" Sam asks.

"Uriel caught… an echo, I suppose it could be called, of something after the fight with Sam Hain. It was not enough for him to identify your source but they suspect an angel." Castiel gives a small sigh. "I am to find out who or what is giving you your information and to stop them."

"It's working," Dean says, smile growing. "I'm changing our so-called destiny."

"Given the number and length of emergency meetings my superiors are having, I would say that you are… messing up their plans."

Dean lets out a triumphant shout. That's the best news he's heard since… Wow, a long, long time. He doesn't want to think about how long their lives have been a mountain of suck but it's hard to avoid.

"So," Sam says slowly, "I was really going to go Dark Side? That's what God had planned for me?"

Castiel gives Dean a quick glance before looking at his younger brother. "I no longer believe that our Father is necessarily the one in charge of the Garrison's response to Lilith's invasion."

"God's left the building?" Sam asks incredulously.

"Cas says it's not up to God to decide mankind's fate, since he gave us free will and all," Dean says bitterly. "That's not stopping the angels from giving it a damn good try, though."

"They knew?" Sam angrily turns on the angel. " _You_ knew that I was… what Ruby and I were doing, and you didn't warn me or tell me to stop?"

This time Castiel turns away, his retreat a silent apology. "We knew about the demon's blood. We were told to warn you but not to interfere in any way."

"Dean's right," Sam says low and bitter. "Angels are dicks."

"Not all of them, not quite," Dean says and he stares at Castiel as he says it. "Are you ready to help us try and end this thing or are you going to keep being a tool?"

"You are asking me to rebel."

Dean shrugs, a half-nod, half-shaking movement. "No, not really just… do what you're doing in a way that helps us fight back, that's all."

"You want me to spy on you?" Castiel's head is tilted so Dean knows he's confused.

"Yeah," the hunter agrees. "You report back to Zachariah and then you come tell us how the other angels reacted to the news. Nothing complicated, nothing underhanded."

"Just kind of sneaky and devious," Sam says with a roll of his eyes. "You really want to work with this guy?" He's still angry. Or rather he's still letting his anger show.

It doesn't mean much, Dean thinks, rubbing a tired hand over his face. Sam is always angry. Stopping the all-you-can-drink demon's blood buffet doesn't seem to have changed it. "Yes, I'm going to work with Cas," he says. "This is Angels and Demons, Sam; Godzilla versus Mothra and we're the poor little cops with handguns trying to save Tokyo."

Sam stares at him for a moment longer, shoulders tense, lips thin from the desire to argue and then his brother swallows, rolls his shoulders, looks away, and the moment's past. "Godzilla versus Mothra, huh?"

Dean shrugs in reply. It was the best example he could come up with. And he's never going to tell Sam about that memory. He wonders what Anna's up to in her hospital room, but feels no need to 'rescue' her. After all, the angels hadn't gone after her until he and Sam had found her. Still, he hopes she's okay.

"You know the best thing to do when they fight is to get out of the way?"

Dean snorts out a laugh. "I'm trying. Believe me, I'm trying." Then a yawn jumps out of him, jaw-crackingly huge and kind of painful and he remembers why they originally came to this place.

"You are tired," Castiel states. "You should rest."

"That was the plan," Dean agrees rubbing both his hands vigorously over his face and scrubbing at his scalp in an attempt to bring alertness into his brain. "Until we wound up in The Prophet Chuck's backyard. Like our lives are some huge cosmic joke."

Sam frowns. "Do we need to go see him?"

"It might be a good idea to see what the angels have planned for us," Dean points out.

"But we already know that they don't know," his brother replies. Sam gestures at Castiel, standing patiently in his corner. "His presence is proof of that."

"And would knowing what The Prophet has written change your immediate plans?" Castiel asks.

"Unless our previously-unknown illegitimate half-brother's actually bait designed to lure us into some kind of trap…" Sam looks at both of them with a face filled with false brightness.

Dean stares at him in disgust. "I wasn't going to tell Cas about Adam."

Sam's confused. "I thought you trusted him?" Two sets of eyes stare at him, one hazel, and one blue.

"I do," Dean assures them both. "It's just that he still has to report back to Zachariah and he can't lie for crap. If we don't tell him the stuff we don't want the angels to know then he doesn't have to try."

"Why shouldn't the angels know about Adam?" Sam asks. "He's not, you know, _us_."

"He's still a Winchester," Dean mutters. Sam glares at him impatiently but Dean thinks that says it all.

Castiel, after a glance at the hunter, takes over the explanation. "The ability to be a vessel to angels of Michael's power, or Lucifer's, is in the blood. It is in your blood and it will be in his blood, passed down from your father and his father and so on."

"So Adam's got it too," Sam says, enlightened.

Dean's moved onto the bed, not bothering to remove his boots. His eyelids are drooping, but he snorts, amused. "You make it sound like a disease."

"A rare genetic variation, actually," Sam replies slowly, "One of the doctors in Memphis thought you—I mean, we—probably had… Shit, I can't remember the name. Some long German thing. It's rare but people who have it tend to heal faster, live longer, that kind of thing. She wanted to do tests." Dean lifts an eyelid to ask a question. "No," Sam answers. "I didn't let her."

"Thank you for that," Dean says. He decides not to open his eyes again. He's got enough trying to ignore the throbbing ache that used to be his body. Knife wounds and witches' spells, angel healings and six hours in a car: not a fun mix.

Unfortunately, Sam's not finished. "So the reason you want to save Adam is to keep him away from the angels because he can take either of our places."

"He cannot take yours," Cas informs Sam. "You were corrupted with Azazel's blood to prepare you for your role as Lucifer's vessel."

"So it's just Dean he can sub for," Sam says. Dean hears his brother shuffle on the carpet. He can picture Sam's half-embarrassed, half-offended face without looking. Other than that, and the chugging AC unit that works as well as the motel sign outside, it's quiet. Dean lets himself drift, no worries. Or at least ignoring as many as he can.

"You still think I'm going to say yes." It's an accusation. One Dean doesn't want to answer considering they're doing better. Not as good as a year ago, but not as bad as Memphis. "I'm not… I'm not drinking Ruby's blood anymore."

"You do not have to ingest it voluntarily." Dean hears the rustle of cloth and pictures Cas moving his shoulders in an almost-shrug. "They would be perfectly willing to kill as many people as it would take to ensure your cooperation, including your brother and your friend Bobby Singer."

Bobby. Future Soulless Sam caused Bobby's death. Now Cas is saying that this Sam might do the same damn thing?

"I thought you said the angels need Dean to be Michael," Sam asks, bewildered.

"That is the plan of the forces of heaven," Castiel confirmed. "However, Lilith might prefer to kill Michael's vessel and thereby avoid the final confrontation completely. Lucifer would win by default."

"Or you could use Adam," Sam states, voice tight with anger. "Now that I told you about him."

"Michael would have found him eventually." The angel's voice is soft, as if he's trying to console the younger hunter or maybe Dean's just not hearing him fully because the world is muffled and distant and sleep is just a turn away…

This time his dreams are a straightforward nightmare of his time in Hell. Even sleeping, he's disturbed by how relieved he is by that.

* * *

  
Dean's soft snore breaks up the brewing argument between Sam and his brother's little angel.

Dean's fallen asleep. His hand is lightly cupped over the place the knife went in, as if it still hurts him, but there are no whimpers or twitches that indicate he's in a nightmare. Not yet. Unspoken agreement has him and Castiel dropping the subject of possible future Heavenly betrayal. Instead, he decides to research this 'Prophet of the Lord' guy while Castiel starts an unblinking vigil in the corner of the room nearest Dean. Which isn't creepy at all…

As he waits for the laptop to boot, he wonders how it is that Dean gets angelic guardians, which, okay, dicks, but still. His big brother has the forces of Heaven on his side and what does he get? One back-stabbing demon and iffy visions. It hardly seems fair. But then, when has his life ever been fair?

Dean got four years of being a whole family, a _real_ family, with both parents and a home. He got the road, a bossy big brother and a drill sergeant for a father. He'd worked for something more, caught a piece of it, and had it snatched away. Dean had skated through life, never planning for the future and here they were—in the exact same place. Except that Dean ended up in Hell as punishment for his impulsiveness, a little voice reminds him. His choice, he snaps back at the voice. I didn't ask him to make a deal for me.

His angry guilt compounds when he wonders if, given the same circumstance, if he would've done the same thing for Dean and he doesn't automatically answer 'of course'. Because he still hasn't figured out how it could've been worth it.

He pushes away from the small table, making it rock on unsteady legs, and goes out to the Impala to grab the food cooler. There's not much in it, peanut butter and old bread, but there's beer and that's what Sam wants.

 _Dean_ was the one so pissed at Dad for making a deal, he reminds himself, taking a long, refreshing drink, so it was hypocritical of him to turn around and do the same thing.

"Would you have let me stay dead?" pops out of his mouth.

Castiel blinks out of his upright coma and focuses his gaze on Sam. "I beg your pardon?"

"When I died, in Cold Oak, if Dean hadn't made his deal, would you have let me stay dead?" Sam's fingers are white on the bottle. "If I'd stayed dead, wouldn't that have ruined the angels' plan? Or did my death not matter if Dean didn't sell his soul? What would the angels have done to me? To Dean? How far were they willing to go?" He's firing the questions at the angel so fast Castiel can't answer but the frown between his brows is growing. Sam finally runs out of accusations, runs out of breath. He drains the beer in two long gulps and it sloshes unpleasantly in his empty stomach.

Castiel frowns and watches. "I'm sorry, Sam. I cannot answer your questions."

"Why not?" he demands. "You're part of it, right? One of their loyal soldiers."

"I-I was," Cas glances away briefly before looking back. "I am sorry, but they didn't tell me much. They still don't."

Sam resists the urge to throw the bottle against the wall. He's tried throwing things; it doesn't release as much frustration as it should. "And you never asked?"

"I was given orders and I obeyed."

"No wonder you and Dean get along so well," he says bitterly. In a blink, Castiel is in front of him, staring fiercely up at him with a confidence that lets Sam know that his height is no advantage.

"Do you know how many angels have actually seen God, Sam?" Castiel growls. "Four, and I am not one of them. So, when one of the Archangels—one of our Father's favored ones—gives me an order, I take it on faith that it is His order and that it is just. If I don't have that faith—if I disobey—then I will be killed. So tell me again, Sam, who was I supposed to ask?"

"Uh…" Sam says stupidly, mind blank.

"That's what I thought." And Castiel is across the room, standing in unblinking vigil.

Sam realizes he's backed up against the wall but can't remember retreating. However, he can't feel the retreat was a _bad_ idea, even with his dignity in shreds.

He sits down in front of his laptop because he's always found research to be soothing. He types in 'Chuck Shurley' and gets no useful returns, not even a Facebook page, but Dean said he published under a different name. It takes him a moment to remember what it is, but when he does the results are much better. There's even a wiki. Since that's always a good place to start, Sam clicks on it.

An hour later, Sam's read all the synopses of all the published books and they perfectly match some of the hunts they've done. From the racist truck and cannibal hillbillies to his very own _Groundhog Day_ and Dean being killed by hellhounds, it's all documented and dissected. The wiki has links to other fan sites and he spends a little time exploring the world of Sam-girls and Dean-girls but the whole slash thing has him shutting the laptop in disgust and wanting a shower.

But it also looks like visiting with the author, finding out what the angels are currently telling him, is maybe a good idea.

He unclenches his jaw. Then he grabs his keys and his wallet.

"When Dean wakes up, tell him I'll be back with pizza." He has no problem with using Castiel as his messenger service since the angels seem to have no problem with using them as their wind-up toys.

"Sam," Castiel puts out a hand to stop him. "Prophets are very special. They are protected."

"What do you mean?"

"If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. I would not be able to help you."

It's a warning, but Sam doesn't understand why Castiel's giving it to him. Until he looks down and sees how tightly he has the keys clenched in his fist. He wants to protest that he has no intention of threatening Chuck Shurley, a.k.a. Carter Edlund, but he's angry, again. Still.

All the shit he's been through, that Dean's been through, and it's not just some perverted chess game played by angels, it's been turned into a public forum where complete strangers, with no understanding of what's really going on, feel free to comment on their pasts and their actions and their _morals_. He doesn't want to know how _samlicker81_ would've handled Madison's death if she'd been the author. She _wasn't_ the author. There wasn't an author. It was just him and Dean, living it, and just because some dude has been set up as a kind of angelic recording device doesn't change the fact that this is _his_ life!

He stares down at his hands, once again fisted tight around the keys.

"I think I'll, um, go for a walk instead."

"Very wise."

He puts the keys down carefully, without a sound, and steps out of the dingy motel room into the dingy parking lot. They've got another two hours here. He looks at the town, sees the river on one side, the fields on the other. The place is tiny. Picturesque. He'll probably be able to tour most of the town and still have time to spare. He shuts the door carefully behind him and picks a direction.

It's nice to be out, in the sunshine, stretching his legs. He's enjoying it. It's relaxing.

Very.

Only two hours, he thinks, and they'll be back on the road, and the Impala, although roomy, wasn't built for a man who's six and a half feet tall. Plus it's stuffed full of memories. He'd grown up in that car, played in the back with Dean, argued with Dean, slept leaning on Dean. They'd carved their initials in it one day while Dad slept off too much Jack. It's home and it's too small. Too much pressure to be Dean's 'Sammy' and not Sam, an adult. A hunter, just like Dean. Just like Dad.

He hadn't wanted to be a hunter.

He remembers that feeling clearly, of being so determined to be something else. It hadn't been a sudden thing, no one moment that he could point to and say 'a-HA! _That's_ why I want to be different,' but an accumulation of moments, minutes and hours of being left behind, of worrying, of changing schools and stitching wounds. Of never being able to answer the question, 'so what does your father do?'

 _Fuck_ …

He stops and takes a deep breath. Then another. He's reached the riverbank where, unlike in bigger cities, no effort has been made to clear a path. It's all thick brush and treacherous rocks. Sam doesn't bother going down. Instead, he flips a mental coin that tells him to go left, so he goes right just to prove he can, that 'destiny' (he sees the air quotes in his mind) has no hold on him.

If Jess hadn't been killed, if they'd— _he'd_ —been left alone, would he have kept right out of it or would he have done the occasional hunt with Dean, knowing it was the only way they had to connect? Would they have found some other way? It's not a thought he's allowed himself to have before, but given how they hadn't talked more than twice in the four years he'd been at Stanford, he doesn't think they would have. So, to have Jess and 'normal' he would've had to give up Dean.

He can't picture it anymore. At one time he could: life without Dean.

Sure he'd been living it a couple months ago, but Dean's… absence was supposed to be temporary. He'd been going to get Dean back because, after losing Jess—okay, and Dad—he couldn't stand to lose Dean too. Some of his guilt sloughs away when he remembers that he _did_ try to change places with Dean. He wasn't such a selfish asshole that he hadn't tried. And he hadn't been relieved when they didn't take him up on it, he tells the voice. He'd been _angry_. He's still angry.

Which is why it's not a good idea that he's in the residential district.

There's all of two streets and four cross avenues, with sidewalks on only one side of the road. He hadn't meant to stop and look up Chuck Shurley's address in the phone book, but he had.

And it's right across the street.

Dark. Unkempt. It's a cute little house that could use a shitload of work. The perfect place for a fairly unsuccessful transcriber of angel dictation to live.

How much does he know?

Does he know Dean killed Ruby? Has he written about Sam stabbing his brother while high on demon blood, and how Dean hasn't forgiven him for it yet? Does he know the angels are uncaring assholes on the same level as demons? Does he know Sam's standing across the road from his house wondering if he should march up the steps and bang on the door?

He can picture it perfectly: _'Hi, I'm Sam Winchester. My brother's name is Dean. We're the Sam and Dean you've been writing about_.'

The guy would call the cops before he finished the last sentence.

' _Hi. I'm Sam Winchester and I want to know why my brother felt my life was worth so much more than his that he was willing to go to fucking Hell to save me_?'

He's tried not thinking about that question.

Tried, in time-honored Winchester tradition, to push it to the back of his mind and pretend it doesn't exist, but he still feels like Private Ryan at the end of the movie standing over Tom Hanks' grave, trying to prove that he'd earned the right to have a life when so many had died giving it to him. 'I hope I've earned what all of you have done for me. I hope that it was enough.' Or something like that.

Sam doesn't feel like he's earned squat. And his life could never be worth what Dean paid for it.

Ties of guilt, ties of loyalty, ties of anger, of love, of family, ties of memory. Ties and chains and ribbons of hope. An ugly chain binding him and turning him and spinning him around until he doesn't know what to do anymore.

He stands, staring, while the clock ticks down. There's no movement, not even a curtain twitch. An elderly woman comes out of the house on the right and scowls at him but Sam ignores her.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. _Where r u?_

Lost in my head, he thinks. _Heading back now,_ he texts back.

_Need p u?_ comes through, followed by _Room times up._

It's as if Dean wants him to know that he's not being overprotective. Which is weird because Dean's always been overprotective.

 _I'm good,_ he replies.

Five minutes later he stops in front of a little greasy spoon place that looks like thousands he's seen before. Except this one has an article from a magazine proudly displayed in the window.

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Dean needs to eat healthier.

On the other hand, if Dean finds out about this place and realizes Sam kept him from it then Sam'll never hear the end of it. With a sigh he wonders if their chicken burger matches Oprah's friend's opinion of the beef burger. He pulls out his phone to text the change of plan to his brother but a soft voice interrupts him.

"Hello, Sam."

He looks up and sees a slim, blonde woman in a tight cat-suit, smiling at him with jeering familiarity. He doesn't know her, but she called him by name, and in his life? It's never a good thing when strangers know your name.

She pouts. "Aw, don't you recognize me? Although, to be fair, you've never seen me in this meat before. Do you like it? I picked it special."

"Lilith," he murmurs in stunned realization.

"Bingo!" she cheers. He tries to slide away but there are bodies—big bodies—blocking his retreat.

"You know, I'd forgotten how much fun could be had in adult meat. It's been about, oh, five millennia since I wore a grown up. I picked a nice one this time, didn't I? She was a dental hygienist and wanted some adventure. Well, I've certainly given her that." She smiles, knowingly. The evil, murderous demon runs her hands over the body she's wearing, lingering a little long on her most curvy parts. Sam notices that her zipper is pulled down rather low. "You like it, don't you?"

It's not a question so Sam says nothing. That's alright though; Lilith hasn't finished talking anyway.

"Don't get me wrong, being some pompous old guy's Lolita never gets old, but this–" she waves at her body "–gives me more freedoms in your world than dressing as a child."

Playing Lolita? Sam swallows down bile as he realizes the implications of Lilith's statement. That last little girl, in New Harmony, had been ten, maybe eleven. For Lilith to use them, let some guy… _touch_ them… It makes his stomach churn with disgust, pity, horror, and rage that Lilith can exist in the same world as them.

"What do you want?" he grinds out.

"What does any sentient being want, Sam?" she asks brightly. "I want to live."

And he wants her to die a thousand horrible deaths, just like his brother did in Hell. His hands are tight enough he can feel his cellphone casing crack in his grip.

"However, for now, I want you to come with me."

"I don't think so," he growls. All she does is laugh, light and tinkling, and Sam wants her to stop— _now_. "Ruby's dead," he spits out. "She worked for you, didn't she?"

"Not for _me_ ," Lilith protests. "She worked for Him,"

"For Lucifer."

"Of course," Lilith confirms. "She was a loyal servant of our Lord. It's a pity she's gone. This would be so much easier if she were here."

It's Sam's turn to protest. "No it wouldn't."

Lilith just laughs. "Oh, _please_. She had you eating out of her hand. Or, you know, a vein, but same difference. You were begging her for more and never counting the cost." She sighs but Sam barely hears her over the roaring of his blood. Dean had been right. He'd been right about Ruby. Son of a bitch.

"Now we'll have to do this the hard way," the demon says with a shrug.

"I won't drink anymore demon blood. You can't trick me anymore."

Lilith smiles, but this time it's filled with malevolence anticipation. "Who says you have to be willing?"

Sam can feel the two demons behind him shifting, getting ready to grab him, and he braces himself for what will likely be a short and useless fight. He turns to put his back to them and nearly knocks over a little skinny guy, who's busy looking at Lilith's borrowed cleavage rather than where he's going.

"S-sorry, man," the guy says.

Sam looks down at him and, whoa, he looks worse than Dean. "No problem, man, but this isn't a good place to be."

He lifts a skinny finger, even as he swallows nervously, "Yeah, but beer."

Sam's got his back to the liquor store beside the diner. In fact, he's got his back practically to the door. It's a little alcove, which means that Lilith's minions can't grab him from the side. It also means the little guy can't get in to get his fix. Sam really, really doesn't want to move from his spot.

A minion reaches out and grabs hold of the guy's arm, probably to drag him out of the way so they can dig Sam out of his hidey-hole, but suddenly there's a boom, like deepest thunder. The wind blows down the street strong enough to knock over garbage cans and mailboxes. The sun is gone, replaced by angry, dark clouds.

"Oh, you can't be serious," Lilith says with a whine. She points at the skinny stranger. "Honestly? This guy?"

Another thunderclap and a flash of sheet lightning. The air starts to feel dense, pressurized. It's getting hard to breathe.

"Fine!" she spits, and just like that the demon smoke is pouring from her mouth. It's followed by the smoke of her minions. In only seconds, all three bodies are empty and the street is oddly quiet.

"So, I'm going to get some beer," the guy says, his voice going up in question.

"I'm thinking whiskey, actually," Sam replies without thinking.

"Yeah, that would work."

They look at each other and share a moment of complete understanding. Then one of the bodies groans and sirens sound in the distance. The moment passes. A quick nod, an embarrassed smile, before the guy goes into the liquor store and Sam continues on back to the hotel. He's not going to mention this to Dean. His brother would freak and worry, and they'd be back the way they were before Sam Hain and their relationship still seems too fragile. Besides, he doesn't know anything.

Dean's just going to have to live without trying the cheeseburger Oprah's girlfriend said was "the best bacon cheeseburger in the country".

* * *

  
In the end they don't visit the writer-slash-prophet either because Cas thinks a visit would attract too much attention from the archangels. Dean agrees because he doesn't want to find out the last two weeks have been wasted; he's fine being an ostrich. Besides, he doesn't know exactly when the ghouls ate Adam and his mom. All he knows is that they'd been dead for a few months when fake Adam had called Dad's old cell. That leaves a whole lot of time for the crawlies to be munching.

On their previously hidden half-brother.

He can't believe Sam's reaction to finding out they had a brother they'd never known, because he'd always been the one demanding to be told everything, yet he finds out another one of their father's Big Lies and he's completely cool with it. In fact, Sam's busy rehashing memories of their childhood trying to figure out when exactly Dad had sneaked away to be with his secret son. He's also interrogating Dean about what his 'vision' had told him about Adam and it's forcing Dean to sift through those memories and he's not liking what he's finding.

Maybe Dad hadn't wanted his innocent younger son exposed to their taint. Or maybe Dad had hidden them from Adam, so that his uncorrupted baby boy would never grow up to be like them. Would never become a hunter, would never have to fight demons.

Or die ripped apart by hellhounds.

Dad had protected Adam from all the shit he'd dropped him and Sam into. He'd tried to be a regular dad to Adam instead of the drill sergeant he'd been with them. Fishing and baseball games with no surprise attacks or caustic debriefings to spoil the fun. Dean knows it's juvenile and stupid, but even with the buffer of his other self's perspective from three years on, he's fucking jealous. In fact, Dean is trying really fucking hard not to feel betrayed by the situation.

What had Adam done to deserve the father Dean can just _kinda_ remember from before the fire?

"I wonder what he looks like," Sam asks and it's one question too many.

"He looks like himself," Dean snaps back. "And he's probably not gonna be happy to know about us. You do realize that, right?"

Sam stares at him and Dean keeps his eyes solidly on the road.

"You know, this isn't the reaction I expected from you. I mean, we have another brother. I'd've thought you'd be, I don't know, _excited_."

Dean doesn't realize he's rubbing a hand over the place the knife went in until Sam glances down, pales, and then presses his lips together before turning away. "Of course, you're not having any luck with brothers lately, are you."

"Not having any luck with much," Dean counters because he really doesn't feel up to another discussion about how sorry Sam is. "You ever think that maybe we're getting too old for this crap?"

"For what?"

"Driving around in a car: no home, no family. Nothing but pain and blood and sacrifice and no end in sight." Sam doesn't respond and Dean carefully doesn't look. He hadn't meant to say that.

"Dean, man. What's up?"

It's Sam's concerned voice. Dean hates it when Sam uses that voice on him. As usual, Sam doesn't take Dean's silence as a clue. "It's not just finding out about Adam, is it? It's all of it. It's-it's me. What I did."

He needs to cut this shit off now. "Sam," he warns.

"No." Sam huffs. "Ever since that night you discovered me and Ruby… found out what we were doing, you've looked at me funny. When you look at me at all." He half turns in his seat, making sure Dean knows how serious he is.

Pivotal moment, Dean thinks. It's one of those times when they could rebuild something or he could add another stick of dynamite to what's left of their relationship. Is he going to hold onto his resentment that Sam didn't listen to him? He looks at his brother, so fucking _huge_ in the Impala's front seat. All grown up but still only, what? Twenty-five? Dean had been sure he could save everything at twenty-five; he'd been a cocky little shit. Still is, because even knowing the hold Ruby had on Sam, he'd ganked his brother's lying-ass, demon fuck-buddy right after they'd… Yeah, bad call, and that means he's partly to blame for what happened after.

"…are you even listening?"

"Sorry, man. What?"

"I'm trying to apologize. For–" Sam waved a finger at Dean's gut "–you know. I screwed up. I admit it. Happy?"

"Happy?" He grimaces. "Not so much. But I'm working on hopeful." It pulls a sideways grin from his brother.

Sam squirms in the seat, wiggling until he's facing Dean fully. "Why didn't you punch me? I expected it, after you found me with Ruby. And a couple times since."

Dean's quiet. He thinks about pulling over so they can do this properly. Decides not to. "Because hitting you, yelling at you, wouldn't have changed anything. You would've stopped for a while, maybe, but eventually something would've happened to convince you that you had to start up with the blood again."

"I wouldn't have!"

Dean sighs. "I'm sorry, Sam. You're… you were angry all the time." Still is, but Dean isn't going to say that. "Self-righteous and arrogant. And trusting. Shit, not just trusting, but naïve in a way that's stupid _and_ friggin' endearing." Okay, getting mushy, he warns himself. "What other bad choices will you make because you think you're in control? Or because you think it's a good idea and worth the risk? C'mon, man, you get so focused on the end result that you don't see what's actually happening and nothing I say can change your mind—"

"You're talking about Lilith again."

"Actually, I wasn't but, yeah, it fits. So does you leaving for Stanford, or hunting for Yellow-Eyes after Jessica died. Or go back further to winning that stupid trophy in middle school. Face it, Sam, you've always been obsessive and driven. Just like Dad."

"I'm not like Dad."

"You two are practically twins, personality-wise." He can feel Sam staring at him in disbelief so he pushes himself to explain, pulling the words from the future that's not going to happen anymore. "I worshipped the guy, you know? I dressed like him, I acted like him, I listen to the same music, but you are more like him than I will ever be."

Sam's silent. He's twisted around so he's looking out the window again. "I don't know if that's a compliment," he finally says and his voice is carefully emotionless.

It would have been once, Dean concedes to himself, but 'once' is forty years in Hell and two ghosts ago. "I don't know if it is either."


	8. Chapter 8

They reach Windom in time to grab a late dinner at the local Biggerson's. Sam still has the little plastic card giving them Free Food for a Year and there are a couple days left. Dean turned over the wheel a couple hours after leaving Kripke's Hollow. Sam was sure he'd heard him muttering "treat 'im like an adult, damn it" but it hadn't made sense so he'd ignored it, too surprised at being allowed to drive the Impala while Dean was able to be vertical.

Except he wasn't, really.

As soon as he'd climbed into Sam's usual seat, Dean had stretched out with a pained grunt and closed his eyes. He'd been rubbing his temple like his head ached and holding his side like it hurt too. Despite the Dagg-whatever Syndrome, Dean isn't healing very fast. Or maybe it was all the supernatural interference with the process—first angels then witches then angels again.

Sam stares down at Dean, sleeping curled slightly against the passenger door, and doesn't wake him. Years and worries have fallen from Dean's face and it could almost be three years ago when they had nothing more on their minds than finding Dad so they could find the thing that'd killed Jessica, and Mom, of course.

… _you are more like him than I will ever be._

Is he really like Dad? So focused on what he wants and needs that he ignores everyone else's feelings, ignores Dean's?

Dean wanted revenge on Azazel for their mom but he hadn't been willing to pass by anyone in danger to get ahead of the bastard. Sam would've. If Dean hadn't been there, wanting to be a hero… A lot of people owe their lives to his brother.

… _you were angry all the time._

Was he angry enough, all-the-time angry, that it actually blinded him? Is he still angry? Because, even though Dean hadn't said the words, Sam had still heard them.

Ruby _had_ lied: about her blood, about Lilith. And Sam _had_ forgotten her promise to save Dean, distracted by the more familiar promise of vengeance. The promise that he could kill the thing that had hurt him, taken Dean from him. He still wants to kill Lilith, but because of Dean, he isn't going to be able to. And yes, that does make him angry. The way the angels are playing with them pisses him off. The way Dean won't tell him why he changed after Carthage has him fuming.

And the way he'll grab at any excuse to be furious is beginning to scare him.

There's lead in his stomach, hot and half-liquid, but still a huge ball weighing him down. Nothing he can do about it now since Biggerson's is closing in an hour and they still need to find a motel. Then there's the research to be done, weapons to clean, truths to tease out of his big brother.

Dean shifts—tiny twitches in his brow and his fingers. A small sound escapes his lips and Sam thinks he might be sinking into a nightmare. They're less frequent than before. Whether it's the visions or remembering everything, Dean's sleeping a little better, and he's not drinking as much either so definite bonus there.

Why does he feel like there's another shoe waiting to fall right on them?

He leans down close to his brother's ear. "Dean. Man, get up." Dean comes awake with a jerk. His eyes are wide as he assesses for danger. Only after he knows they're safe does he groan at moving stiff muscles and half-healed wounds.

Their dad used to do that too, Sam remembers. John would go instantly from comatose to physically hyper-alert. Once he'd realized they weren't under attack his eyelids would fall and they'd barely be able to get a grunt from the man until his second shot of caffeine. Used to scare the shit out of Sam when he was a kid. He'd refused to poke Dad awake since he jumped almost as much as his dad. Instead he'd stand at the side of the bed calling 'Dad, Dad' in a progressively louder voice until it finally got through and woke John up. Doing it that way hadn't changed their father's reaction, unfortunately. John still jolted, Sam would jump, and Dean laughed at them both.

He hadn't thought about that in years.

"Did your vision give you instructions on how to kill ghouls?" Sam holds the door open for his brother who's now fumblingly half-asleep again—his brain following several steps behind his body.

"What else? Take the head."

Sam confirms they can use the card and they get a table in the back. Where civilians won't hear them talk about taking heads and all the other details that go into hunting the undead, but only after Dean orders a huge 'Bigger Man' breakfast. "I'm just waking up so it is my breakfast," Dean, defends his food choice, although Sam didn't say anything. There are vegetables mixed into Dean's scrambled eggs, and potatoes are like multi-vitamins when raw, so some of that healthiness has to have survived being deep-fried, right?

Now Sam watches his brother enthusiastically shovel eggs and hash browns and sausage into his mouth. Table manners are a thing of the past.

"Sam!"

Right. "Umm." What had they been talking about?

"I said, from what I remember, the ghouls started out doing the usual ghoul stuff."

"Scavenging in graveyards," Sam says to show he's been listening.

Dean nods. "Then they moved on to live meals but I don't—I wasn't shown, the names of any of their victims or the towns. I know they come here looking for payback against Dad." Sam laughs suddenly and Dean stops mid-chew.

"Dude, mouth."

Dean closes his mouth but keeps looking at him. Sam sighs, no getting out of this now. "Don't you think it's a little ironic that Dad, who took up hunting to get revenge on the thing that killed Mom, is targeted by monsters who want to get revenge on him for killing their father?"

Dean's eyes get that weird faraway look that's become all too common lately. "Everybody has parents, Sam, even monsters."

Sam's sure there's more to what Dean said than the mere words, but before he can call his brother on it, the server's at their table asking about the food and pouring them more coffee. She's cute, perky, and interested, but Dean barely glances at her. Sam hides his concern behind the lukewarm decaf—something he's not going to miss from Biggerson's once their year is up. Despite the content warnings, their coffee is _never_ hot.

"So how do we find them?" he asks. "Wait here until they show up?"

"Well, Windom is where this starts and ends, so it might just be the center, too."

"So we read the local newspapers." Easy enough.

They head to the counter where Sam presents the little magic card and waits for the manager to be called to approve the credit.

It's another reason he's not going to miss eating here. Having the manager come out to approve the transaction always calls attention to them, makes them memorable, _more_ memorable. He's six and a half feet tall and Dean is… Dean. Women usually remember his brother. Like the hostess currently standing behind the cash register. She's pretty and she's looking at both of them in appreciation. Sam smiles carefully back because, yeah, if the timing was better, he'd tap that. Dean barely looks as he pays cash for some coffee to go and a package of gum.

"You didn't get her phone number," Sam says as they leave the restaurant. He tucks the Biggerson's card carefully back in his wallet since there's still another thirty-six hours on it and they'll be here at least a day.

"Whose?" Dean asks before he gets it. "Oh, the cashier? Nah. No point. Not going to be here long enough and besides, not sure if that's the best activity when recovering from an abdominal wound."

"I thought it was always a good activity?" Dean had been nineteen, huge gash in his lower back, but he'd insisted on keeping his date with a cheerleader. Sam had been concerned. Dean had shrugged it off with a leer and a swagger. An attitude he'd carried on with almost up to when… when he'd died.

Sam's pretty sure this new, resurrected Dean won't respond the same way.

"Maybe when I was younger," Dean replies and confirms Sam's guess. Or his fear. Sam's not sure which one it is.

He's looking up at the sky so Sam looks up too. There are streetlights and clouds, so most of the stars are blocked from view.

"Look, there's Jupiter, just by Sagittarius."

Sam obediently looks where his brother's pointing and sees the ball of extra-brightness that he would've taken for a plain old star. Dean had always been more aware of the night sky. He's the one who stole a book about it and dragged Sam outside when they should've been sleeping. His big brother may have hated camping but he could navigate through the wilderness just fine as long as he could see the stars.

By the time he's ready to call Dean on his 'when I was younger' comment, Dean's already walked to the driver's side. "Sam. Keys."

He thinks of arguing, he does. Sam thinks of all the things they haven't talked about and probably should. He thinks about it.

Then he throws Dean the keys and gets in the car without question, like he always does.

* * *

  
"Okay, so what's the plan?" Sam asks as soon as they settle into the motel room. "Once we find the town, how do we find the ghouls?"

Dean rubs his head. All that food has made him dopey.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is sharp.

"I dunno, Sam," Dean confesses. "We can figure it out tomorrow. They're not going to take out Dad's…" He almost says 'girlfriend', except they weren't. And he can't bring himself to say hook-up because he doesn't want to think of his father and casual sex in the same sentence. "They're not going to take out Adam's mom, tonight."

Sam huffs out a breath. "How do you know?"

"Cuz I do." He's already got his boots off and is shrugging out of his shirts. He knows the knife wound is healed again but that doesn't stop it from itching like a son of a bitch.

"Dean…" It's Sam's 'you're being childish and annoying' voice. "You dragged us here. Now you're not going to take this seriously?"

"I'll take it seriously after I get more than three hours sleep. Horizontal," he adds as Sam opens his mouth. "In a bed. Come on, man. You can use the down time too. The pistons in your brain are wearing themselves out, I know it." He keeps his tone light, suggestion only, and is rewarded when Sam agrees to doing only a quick search while Dean's getting ready for bed. It helps that yawns are contagious and it doesn't matter that it's just the brain's way of getting more oxygen. Yawning equals sleepy. He yawned then Sam yawned, and it was settled. Sleep now, research tomorrow.

In the bathroom he decides to do the full routine: shower, floss, brush, shave—he even cleans his nails. He doesn't know why until he recognizes a memory of a future full of too many nights dropping onto their beds fully dressed. Exhaustion, caution, or alcohol had—will have—made them uncaring of comfort or cleanliness. If he actually strips down to his boxers, he thinks, he's denying the urgency and despair that had, or will, grip him—grip both of them—next year. Or maybe it would have been next fall that it got so bad. Lucifer up and the Horsemen loose, and Ellen and Jo…

They could go see Ellen and Jo, he realizes suddenly. They're still alive now and Ellen doesn't know he got out of Hell, unless Rufus has already told her. Still, if he calls now, it could save him an ass-whooping later. It sounds like a better idea than hunting _ghouls_ even to save his unknown half-brother's life. Except saving his mom was a big reason Adam said yes, or will say yes in that other future. The future that isn't going to happen now.

And there are all those other people the ghouls killed. They're alive right now. It'd be nice if they could stay that way.

He leaves the light on when he goes into the sleeping area. Sam's sitting at the computer but he shuts it down when he sees Dean and heads to the bathroom for his turn. Then he pauses, looks at Dean's boxers and T-shirt.

"You sleeping in that?" There's a world of surprise in Sam's voice and his eyes linger on the scar Cas left behind that's just peeking out from under his sleeve.

"Yeah. Jeans suck to sleep in."

Sam has to agree but Dean can see he's still baffled as he goes to get ready for bed. It's such a small thing, sleeping undressed, but it means that he's letting himself be vulnerable, that he doesn't expect an attack, that this is a job not an obsession. That they're normal guys travelling the country, not supernaturally cursed, dysfunctional idjits who don't know when to stop. They have a life outside hunting and being hunted. Sam might not have seen all of that in how Dean was dressed for bed, but he obviously saw enough to make him pause.

Good. Maybe it'll make him think too.

Dean peels back the covers and slips between the rough, cold sheets. They smell like detergent, which is a step up from the sour sex, old booze and stale cigarettes of the place in Kripke's Hollow. 'Not as nice as the soft, warm sheets of Lisa's bed,' the thought drifts through his mind. And certainly a step down from sleeping next to soft, warm Lisa…

He's pulled out of grey mist by warmth—not heat, not pain—but warmth, comforting arousing warmth. Warm, soft body on top of him, rubbing. Warm, soft lips pressing down on him, sucking. Warm, soft breaths flowing over his skin…

Oh yeah. Now _this_ is his type of dream.

Lisa runs her strong hands over him, caressing the sensitive skin around his scars and making him shiver. She nibbles on his skin with strong teeth and moist tongue, and it doesn't take long until he's pulling her up to capture her mouth with his. He lets his hands roam over familiar territory, relishing her soft moans. He rolls them, so he can move over her body more easily, reach all the places he enjoys. She's panting, calling his name. Her voice gets stronger, deeper…

And turns into a semi's air horn being blasted on the road beside the motel.

Son of a _bitch!_

He scrubs shaky hands over his face, through his hair. He'd been enjoying that. Much better than dreams featuring angels, demons or ghosts. Speaking of which… the air around him is chilly and his breath fogs in the death-cold room.

Aw, shit, Dean thinks and lifts up onto his elbows.

The ghost is standing beside the bed, looking unfinished and thin. Dean swallows bile because this one had been gruesome. His ghost's missing bits of itself, which means _he_ is missing bits of himself: a hip, some ribs, parts of his hands, his face… It's like he's a jigsaw puzzle that hasn't been fully assembled. What Dean _can_ see is covered in blood.

He glances over at his brother, but Sam is a lump of steady breathing.

"How long?" he asks quietly.

"About six months," his spirit answers. Dead Dean, the edited version, rubs a quick hand over his mouth then over what there is of his scalp. "They take Sam. Just over a month from now. They fucking grab him off the street and _take_ him because he didn't tell me Lilith's been stalking him." His ghost's voice rises in anger, fear, exasperation, and a hundred other emotions that Dean doesn't take time to identify. He glances over at his sleeping brother, but Sam's chest still rises and falls softly and steadily.

"Where'd they take him?" he asks.

His ghost shakes his head. "We couldn't find him. I'm not sure the angels even fucking _tried_. Except Cas, and they punished him for it." The spirit self flickers as if the emotion is causing a short circuit. "It turns out that Sam doesn't have to be the one to kill Lilith. He just has to be in the area, overflowing with demon's blood, and he has to say yes."

Oh.

He remembers a memory that's not really his. He sees pale Jimmy Novak chowing down on a burger or three, explaining how he'd consented to Castiel taking over his body. "He said yes? Sam did that?"

"He must have, because Lucifer was definitely wearing him."

"Why?"

His ghost shrugs, which looks odd with only one shoulder. "Maybe they tricked him or made him promises—convinced him somehow—I don't know. I just know he was the Devil and he killed me, us… again." The missing shoulder joint flashes into existence. Dean, the Abridged Version, looks over at it. "They're finding all my—our parts. Then they're going to salt and burn, so we don't have much time."

"Okay," he agrees, knowing his ghost wouldn't have come back if he didn't have an idea or information or something. He hopes.

"That idea you had, about banishing Lilith? You need to get on that."

Dean nearly laughs, "I'm looking, man, but I can't find anything that can handle a demon of her power."

His future self nods, agreeing, "I know. It was hard, but they—Cas and Bobby—they found one. The book is by Gabrioli Imbroglione and it's called… Shit," he snaps his fingers impatiently but there's no sound. " _Manuale per lo spostamento di Demoni Potenti lontani._ It translates to 'handbook for banishing powerful demons' or something.

Dean tries to repeat the name back but knows he's messing it up terribly.

"Crap," his ghost says, "Okay, I'm going to give you just this memory and that's it. I don't want to mess with the memories you got from the first of us." He feels a light touch on his forehead—a flash of memory: musty, dark, dust… reading a book… reading the reference to the ritual… trying to locate it. The memory stops when the white-suited figure steps into Bobby's study. _"Hello, Dean_."

"Got it?" his ghost asks.

What he remembers most right now is that image of Sam/not-Sam, smarmy and self-righteous, but the memory of the book is there, planted in his brain, so he nods.

Abridged Dean returns the nod. "Good, great." Except they both know it's really not. The spirit tilts his head, either looking at or listening to something only he can sense. He's complete now, no missing bits. "They've got the lighter fluid," he announces, which means it's good-bye.

"Hey," Dean asks, "Where do we go?"

His ghost laughs bitterly. "The answer hasn't changed since you asked Zombie Lunch." Dean shrugs in embarrassed apology. His future dead self smiles at him. "Good luck, Dean."

"You too," he whispers as his ghost flares and burns right in front of him.

"Holy shit," the voice comes from beside him, from his very awake and astonished brother. "Holy shit, Dean. That was you."

It's reassuring to know that Sam's grasp of the obvious is excellent at way-too-early in the morning.

"Yeah."

"You were a friggin' ghost," Sam points out.

"Yeah, I know." Dean says agreeably. Sam turns to look at him, eyes sharp and intelligent, and Dean is reminded that his baby brother had earned a full ride to Stanford. There's a brain behind all that hair and the demon's blood thing. He looks away.

"That's how you knew," Sam says. "It's not _visions_ ; it's visits from your _ghosts_."

It's an accusation and Dean doesn't bother answering, instead he asks a question of his own. "Does it matter?" He needs a drink but he'll settle for water.

"How many?" Sam demands, following him to the bathroom door, and then he waits. Sam can wait in silent demand for hours.

"This is the third. Kind of like that Dickens Christmas movie, huh?" Dean checks his brother but Sam isn't smiling.

"That's why… That's why you killed Ruby," Sam says slowly. "Because your ghost told you to. Convinced you—"

Dean raises a hand to cut off that line of speculation. "Nobody told me to kill Ruby."

Sam hasn't finished. "The night you walked in on me and her exorcising demons. When you came back to the room, you'd seen one then."

"Yeah, that night," Dean agrees. "That ghost, he was from about four years from now. He'd seen what happened when Ruby stuck around, talking you into drinking the demon's blood."

"And what _did_ happen, Dean?" Sam's practically vibrating with anger.

Dean turns away, hiding his eyes. "You killed Lilith and her death opened Lucifer's cage. The Four Horsemen rose and it was literally turning into Hell on earth: disasters, disease, the works."

"I did…" Sam swallows and Dean hears the click. He knows that Sam's anger has drained away and horror has likely taken its place. "Did I say yes?"

"No, not right away." Sam's eyes widen and he sways on his feet. Fuck, Sam might just pass out, Dean realizes. It'd be like a redwood going down, he thinks, but even he can't work up a laugh. He grabs Sam's arm and steers him towards the bed, pushing him down. "Later, a long time later, you said yes but it was part of a plan to take Lucy back down below. It worked."

"I went to Hell?" Now he's looking at him like a little kid, wanting reassurance that the bogeyman wasn't real.

"It's not going to happen now." Dean sits back on his rumpled bed wishing he could've stayed in his dream. "Ruby is dead and she was the only demon close enough to you to get you to the church on time."

Sam bounces up. "I _married_ her?"

His voice vibrates in outraged horror so close to a comedy screech that Dean's tempted to jiggle his ears in reply, like in the cartoons. He realizes that it wouldn't be appropriate. Instead he reaches out and drags his girlie-brother back down onto his bed. "Nah, man. That's just where the ritual took place. In a convent chapel, actually."

Sam sits there, breathing hard for a bit, scrubbing at his face, trying to get his heart back under control. Dean can relate. He stands up and gets Sam some water, knowing that the cool liquid _will_ help his brother's throat. Sam drains the glass, one swallow, and gives it back. Before Dean can go back to the sink, his wrist is caught in a giant hand. "So that's it. We're safe now?"

Shit.

"We're not."

Dean shakes his head. "As long as Lilith is out there, the demons can still open the cage. That means they need you. You're the only one who can, I dunno, _hold_ him for any length of time without burning up from the inside. The only way to get you clear of this is if we banish Lilith. Then the pressure will be off both of us, and all we'll have to deal with is old-fashioned monsters like spirits and werewolves and shit." He rubs his hand over the wound. It's itching again. "No more angels, hopefully no more demons, or at least they won't be quite so focused on us. A chance to, I dunno, start over."

"You're still on about banishing Lilith," Sam says in disbelief.

Dean stares at him, eyes hard. "And you're still thinking I plucked the idea out of my ass?" he counters and Sam has the grace to look away. "Lilith can't die, not if we want to keep Lucifer in his cage."

"But you said she's the last Seal, the final one," Sam turns to him eagerly. "What if we kill her now? There's only a dozen seals broken. If we kill her out of sequence maybe it won't have the same effect."

Dean watches his brother. Hazel eyes are flashing with fury and his voice is clipped with fervor. He's like some hellfire and brimstone revival preacher imbued with the power of the Lord. He needs to break Sam out of this obsession he's got for killing Lilith, but he's not sure where it came from. Now Sam wanting to kill old Yellow Eyes made perfect sense. That bastard killed Jessica right above Sam, above their bed. That made it personal. But Lilith? Dean can't quite understand that one and he thinks he needs to.

The only way to find out is to ask…

"Why is it so important to kill her?"

"Because… because of what she did to you." Dean frowns at him, confused, so Sam explains. "She had your contract, man. She set the hounds on you and… and you were safe. I mean, not _safe_ safe, but they were blocked out." Dean's shaking his head and it just makes Sam talk faster. "We could've figured something out except she opened the door and shelet it in and… and it ripped you apart."

"I know, dude. I was there." It's said simply because Dean still doesn't get it.

"Of all the times I watched you die because of the Trickster, _none_ of them, none of them matched that one. I couldn't move, man. I couldn't… You were being ripped apart and I could do nothing." Sam stands up hastily, turning his back and Dean realizes that he's close to crying.

"It's okay," Dean says, unsure what he should do.

"No. It's not," Sam responds, voice sharp, biting. "All these special fucking powers I'm supposed to have and I. Couldn't. Do. Shit. Fucking useless, just like always." The last bit is low enough that Dean knows he isn't supposed to hear it, but he does. He stands up, hand out, hovering close to Sam's arm. Once he would've just pulled his baby brother into his arms and to hell with his masculine image, but he doesn't know how to close that distance any more.

"It's not your fault, dude," he says, struggling, as always, to find the right words. "It was a set-up, for one thing, and we were going in blind." Sam shakes his head still not looking at him. "It's my fault I made the deal." _That_ gets a reaction.

Sam turns fast as a snake. "Damn right it's your fault. You should never have—" he stops and catches his breath. Turns away so that Dean won't see how wet his eyes are.

"I know, I know," Dean agrees, he does, but he'd still do the same thing. Probably. "But I did and there was nothing you could've done to stop Hell collecting on the debt. But I'm alive now and killing Lilith…" He gives an awkward laugh as a thought occurs to him. "Killing Lilith might actually reverse that." Dean stands, trying to be a solid, supportive presence and fearing that he's failing utterly.

"Someone should pay," Sam insists stubbornly.

For some reason he thinks of his first days in Hell, suspended by huge fucking anchor chains in the middle of an unending nothingness. The only sound had been lightning cracks and him screaming his ass off for Sam and so fricking scared he'd wanted to puke. He hadn't even been aware of how much pain he was in, not until he'd realized that his brother wasn't getting him out anytime soon. _That's_ when he realized the metal he hung on was eating away at his flesh, pulling him slowly apart. Then he had thrown up but there had been no gravity and so his vomit had hung there next to him, stinking witness to his humiliation. Forty years later, it had become one of the least horrible things he smelled

Fuck, he needs a distraction, right the fuck now.

"I don't want my whole life to be about death." It doesn't take Sam's bark of ironic laughter to make Dean realize how stupid that sounded. "I mean…" What does he mean? "I mean up until now, the stuff we kill has been to save people. This crusade to kill Lilith… isn't. It changes who we are, _what_ we are."

Sam can't deny it, doesn't even try. He paces away from Dean then back. His jaw is tight and his shoulders are lifted as if he's getting ready to fight. He stands in front of Dean a moment and it's one of those jarring disconnects where the reality of Sam being half a head taller hits Dean with breath-stealing oddness. Sammy's the baby, the little brother. Except he isn't.

"Okay, say I go along with this… _plan_. Do you even know how to banish a thing like Lilith? Because she's not some corner-store demon that runs from holy water or can be trapped in a circle." His voice is belligerent, daring Dean to answer positively when he knows that just a couple days before, Dean didn't have a clue.

"Actually, there's a book," Dean answers mildly. "And Cas, or maybe Bobby, will know where to find it."

"Just like that?"

"It's what this last ghost came to tell me. It's called 'manual per lo spotimento demonic potenti long time-o' or something." Sam's eyebrows rise at Dean's mangled pronunciation. "Shut up. I can't say it but I can spell it. Then we just need to get Bobby to find it."

"And if he can't?"

If Bobby can't find it then Sam will kill Dean again and take the whole world with him.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, Sam and Dean are waiting for Bobby to be his usual awesome guru self. Sam had emailed him the name of the book, which Dean had written letter-perfect just as he'd said. Now they're waiting for the hunter to phone back to let them know if the book is real, and if it is, whether he can get his hands on a copy. Sam doesn't have high hopes for a positive response to either question, but his stomach is still jittery and his mouth is still dry.

Dean had gone out for breakfast and he'd brought back newspapers with the pancakes, but his search for ghoul sign is desultory at best. Sam looks up from his screen to watch his brother glance through the columns, chewing on the tip of a pen just like he's done for years, but that's about all that's familiar. Not for the first time, Sam thinks Dean looks old and weary, and Sam wants to kill everything that has brought his big brother to this…except he's the one who caused a lot of it.

If Sam hadn't actually seen and heard Dean's ghost, he wouldn't believe it, any of it.

It's not helping that Dean won't explain the spell that allowed his spirit to travel back through time to warn him. The one that allowed his future ghosts to share their memories with their younger, living self. He'd sent a different email to Bobby asking about Dean's ghosts, because there was always a chance it was Hell—or Heaven—manipulating his brother with projections and false memories, and he has to know if it's possible. He'd suggested it last night but Dean had just looked at him like he was nuts.

Like _he_ was nuts.

He wasn't the one seeing the ghosts of future past.

"Holy shit," Dean declares, sitting back in his chair in surprise. "I found 'em."

"Found?"

"The ghouls," he explains. "Here's a report on vandalism in a cemetery in Mountain Lake. That's like, ten minutes away. Right next to it, there's a death by animal attack— _unidentified_ animal attack. 'Citizens are being warned to keep an eye out for a rabid dog or other large carnivore', it says."

Sam's about to respond, but his cell rings. Sam picks it up. Sure enough, it's Bobby. He flips it open. "Hey, Bobby," he says.

" _Sam, where the hell did you get your intel?_ " the hunter demands instead of saying hello. " _I found your book_."

"It's real?" Sam doesn't actually believe it; is still not sure he wants to believe it. On his way to the coffeepot, Dean gestures for him to put Bobby on speakerphone. Sam switches it over and places it on the table.

" _Right, okay,_ " Bobby's voice sounds deep and hollow. " _The book, '_ Manuale per lo Spostamento di Demoni Potenti lontano _. Literally: Manual for Chasing Away Powerful Demons._ _Written, if you believe the title page, in the 1650s by one Gabriolo Imbroglione._ "

"Wait, what's the guy's name?" Dean asks, pausing mid-pour.

" _Gabriolo Imbroglione,_ " Bobby answers and his voice, even through the digital circuits, sounds dryly amused. " _Any guess as to what that means?"_

"Imbroglione," Sam says, "isn't that 'trickster' in Italian?"

" _Bulls-eye,_ " Bobby answers.

"Gabriolo Trickster," Dean murmurs as if that relieves some doubt. For the first time, Sam realizes that Dean hadn't been sure; pretty sure, maybe almost positive, but now he Believes. It's there in Dean's expression, a momentary widening of the eyes followed by a slight drop of his shoulders. They've been watching each other for years, reading each other's tells, discussing strategies in the middle of hunts without exchanging a word.

It's possible Sam might be screwed.

Bobby's continuing his explanation. " _If it was written by THE Trickster, then that explains a lot. The book's a bit of a joke among hunters in Europe because… Well, because there are inconsistencies in the text_." Dean raises a questioning eyebrow, so Sam asks out loud. " _He mentions sweet grass as a spiritual cleanse_ ," Bobby answers, _"Balsam of Peru as an ingredient in spell-breaking, and geraniums for use in exorcisms_."

"And that's weird how?" Dean asks.

"Because none of those plants were known in Italy at the time," Sam explains.

" _And that's not all_ ," Bobby adds, " _He included rituals and rites from religions all around the world. Areas that Europe barely knew existed at the time._."

"Is there a ritual in there that can take on a demon of Lilith's strength?" Sam asks. This is the next spot that could end Dean's hope and let him have his. What if Dean's ghost got it wrong? He keeps watching Dean.

Bobby's next words kill that theory. " _According to my sources in Europe? Yeah. Apparently, there's a ritual in it that could cage Lucifer himself. All you need is the rings of the Four Horsemen and voila_." Bobby chuckles mockingly. " _No wonder the guys in Europe have a hard time believing it's not a fake."_

Dean doesn't laugh; he doesn't roll his eyes. He freezes and tightens up and Sam's realizes that his brother remembers where and when they used that ritual, which means the spell to banish Lilith might be legit.

God _damn_ it.

"So how do we go about banishing the first demon Lucifer ever created?" Sam asks. This is the next hurdle. If the ritual calls for fifty virgins to be sacrificed on a full moon, there's no way his big brother will go for it.

Sam's kind of disgusted with himself for half-hoping that's what it calls for.

" _I haven't actually got the book in front of me, Sam,_ " Bobby says sarcastically. " _One of my contacts is going to scan a copy and send it to me._ "

Sam snorts, "Hopefully it'll be legible."

" _I'm not that optimistic, but maybe I'll be able to find the spell we need and clean it up some._ "

"How long will it take?" Dean asks.

" _I don't know. My guy said at least a couple of days to get his hands on a copy long enough to PDF it. A couple days to make the file then who knows how long to read it and find the right spell_ _."_

"So a couple weeks?"

"' _Bout that_ ," Bobby confirms.

"See if you can't speed it up," Dean orders and Bobby barks at him in return, but Dean says he's got a feeling and that it's important, and the old hunter caves just like he always has when either of the Winchester boys ask him for something.

They end the call and Sam stares at Dean, and Dean stares at Sam, and neither of them says anything.

"Holy shit." Sam's voice is low.

"Yeah."

The laptop whirrs.

"How did you know that spell?" Sam finally asks. Dean lifts his eyebrows, pretending to not understand. "The one using the rings of the Four Horsemen."

"Ah," Dean looks away. "That one."

"Yeah." Sam repeats it deliberately, "That one."

Dean doesn't answer right away and Sam barely restrains himself from snapping at him impatiently. Too many damn secrets.

"I told you, last night, that you'd sacrificed yourself to trap Lucifer?" Sam nods. "That was the spell we used to, uh, reopen the door. Once it was open, you jumped in and took the Devil with you." Dean's voice breaks and he clears it self-consciously. Dean has all the signs of being in the middle of an emotional moment. Over something that hasn't happened yet. Won't happen? Didn't happen? It's as if this Dean, who only has some other Dean's memories of the event, is reacting like he'd lived it.

He had lived it, kind of.

If Sam's right, then Dean didn't just get the facts of whatever his ghosts went through, he got everything, in full-body Imax 3D, with smell-o-vision thrown in for fun. No wonder he's so set on banishing Lilith.

A change in subject is obviously in order. "The Four Horsemen? Seriously?"

Dean nods but doesn't say anything more. He looks at the beer cooler and Sam knows he want to grab one, maybe more than one, but he doesn't. Just turns away and goes to the coffee. A month ago he would have just grabbed the beer or four, and the only reason Sam can think of for his brother's restraint is because this Dean lived through a future where they drank and they got killed and so did their friends. Maybe one of the future Deans recognized that alcohol didn't help, that it was, in its way, as bad as demon blood for drowning out truth and caution.

It still makes Sam shiver as if _he's_ the one being visited by ghosts.

"What were they like?" He asks more to take his mind off the once-but-no-longer-future, but also because he's interested. "The Horsemen."

Dean looks at him, and gives a surprised laugh. Sam shrugs, "I figure this time round I won't get to meet them."

Dean's chuckle is rueful. "Trust me, meeting them wasn't fun. The most decent one was Death. Very polite. Fucking terrifying though. He said he'd eventually reap God."

"Reap… God." Sam can't believe it.

Dean nods and he looks oddly cheerful. "Just a little intimidating to talk to."

"Yeah," Sam agrees weakly. "Just a little."

"Death is—was—completely neutral in the whole Apocalypse thing. As long as life and death follow their proper rhythms, he doesn't care."

"Why should he, since he's going to reap God." Dean just nods his head casually while Sam can't process even the idea of it.

"Exactly. The others though, War, Famine and Pestilence. They're bastards. Liked toying with us humans, making us suffer. I am so glad we're not going to run into them this time."

"Do you realize how freakishly bizarre that sounds?"

"Yeah, well. This is our lives." Dean looks at him and Sam is struck once again by how tired his brother looks, and it's not physical, not just because of the injury and the healing. This is deeper. A mental tiredness, more insidious and harder to combat. It occurs to Sam that knowing all these futures must be harder than science fiction makes it seem. Probably the only way to make it easier, to keep everything straight, is to not to think about all of it: pretend you don't know anything but the now and hope that it all turns out fine.

Sam can pretend—it's a Winchester specialty.

"So when do you think we'll get to Bobby's? It's only an hour or so from here, right?"

"We're not going to Bobby's," Dean says. "We still have the ghouls to hunt."

"Seriously?"

Dean gives him a short nod.

"But we don't even know when they reach Windom. Our brother" –damned if that doesn't sound weird– "Adam's not in danger for months yet, you said."

"What about all the other people they kill? We just gonna let them die?"

Typical, Sam thinks. Putting everybody else's needs before their own. How can he think he's not like Dad?

"Look," Dean argues, "right now we know where they are, and we're close. It'll be a day or two tops before Bobby's ready for us and he might not have even finished translating by then."

It's logical, though Sam doesn't like it.

"Are we going to introduce ourselves to Adam or his mom while we're here?" He's curious, he admits it. Adam and his non-hunting childhood represents what they could've been if only things had been different. A muscle flexes in Dean's jaw and he doesn't think Dean shares his curiosity.

"We probably should," Dean finally says. "They have a right to know that Dad's dead, for one thing." _Not_ the reaction Sam had figured. "But no trying to turn Adam into a hunter."

"I wouldn't!" The protest is automatic. Dean's eyes are flat and uncompromising.

"I did." Sam doesn't believe it. He's hated hunting since he was a kid and, sure, yeah, he's adjusted to his new reality—can kind of see the point of doing what they do—but that in no way means he thinks recruiting people into it is a good idea.

Dean sighs and lets go of the argument. "To be fair, Adam, the ghoul Adam, was setting us up, always talking about getting revenge on the thing that 'killed his mom', and you were hell-bent on your own quest, so you kind of fed off of each other. But it was just a way to distract us, keep us busy, until we separated and they could take their own revenge." Dean looks away. "And I just… gave up, I suppose."

"Gave up on what?"

Dean flicks a glance his way and Sam braces himself. "On you. On us. On it ever going back to what it had been." He gives a bitter chuckle. "I didn't have much hope that it would get any better, but I sure as hell didn't realize it was going to get worse. It was supposed to be you and me against the world."

"It was, I mean, it is." Sam can feel his heart pounding. "That future? It's not going to happen anymore. You've changed it."

"Really? 'Cause every time I turn around there's another ghost coming at me telling me I've been killed again." Dean rolls his lips, swallowing nervously. "I ask… I ask them, where we—I—go. They can never tell me. I don't… I can't go back down there, Sam. I can't."

"Saving the world's gotta count on the plus side, right?" Sam jokes lightly because he can tell by the way Dean's breathing and closing in on himself that he's remembering Hell.

"Heaven sucks ass too, Sam, so still no bright side."

Sam just stares because Dean's bitter and tired and he doesn't trust Sam to have his back anymore—not like he used to, but he needs to do something, say something, that will pull Dean out of this. "Maybe we won't die. At least not for a long time."

Dean doesn't bother laughing. "What kind of Kool-Aid you drinking, man? It ends bloody or sad, or we get out."

"Get out?" he asks, surprised. "Is that what you're going to do, if this works and we banish Lilith without killing ourselves? Is that what you're saying _I_ should do?"

"Is it such a bad idea?"

Sam doesn't answer. He's never thought it an option that his brother would consider, not when people would die if they weren't out there.

Dean digs deeper, "Tell me, Sam, in all the futures you've envisioned over the past year or so, have any of them included surviving?"

Sam doesn't want to admit that no, they haven't.

Dean hears him anyway. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

* * *

  
It takes ten minutes for them to drive to Mountain Lake. They might as well have not bothered. The place has three cemeteries but only one was the victim of 'grave robbers'. They check out the other two graveyards, slipping on leaves slick with first snow and getting whipped in the face by low branches, but it makes no difference. There's no sign of the ghouls anywhere. Now they're sitting in the local diner, drinking coffee and listening to the local gossip but there's not a whisper of anything odd.

"You know," Sam says patiently, leaning forward so he can keep his voice down. "Just because they eat corpses doesn't mean they _sleep_ with them. And I don't mean sex."

"Maybe they checked into a motel." Dean's voice is mocking but Sam can see the small appreciative smile.

"It's possible. Ghouls are, after all, high-functioning undead, right? Or maybe they're not here. Maybe they're in Butterfield or Darfur or, hell, maybe they're in Minneapolis. All we've got are your hazy impressions passed on by a dead guy." Sam reigns himself in. "Sorry, this whole 'I see dead people' thing is freaking me out."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"Why?" It comes out of his mouth without thought.

"Why am I freaked?" Dean asks in disbelief.

"No, dumb ass," Sam rolls his eyes. "Why did you start getting visits? Why now? Why not, I dunno, _two years ago_?" Before Dad sold his soul. Before you sold yours. Before, when there was still a chance to change everything.

Dean gives him a sad little smile. "Because I am, literally, not the same man I was then. Like the Six Million Dollar Man, baby, I was completely rebuilt."

Oh.

Dean assumes a pose he probably thinks a model would use. "Cas did a pretty good job, huh?"

Four months in the ground, no preservatives except a few hastily spoken words and a layer of salt, no protection against scavengers except depth and a hex bag. Sam is familiar enough with the different stages of decay—a sad thought right there—that he has to admit that Cas did indeed do a pretty good job.

"So, ghouls. Suggestions?"

Dean shrugs. "There was that little place between Windom and here." He looks at Sam, a question in his gaze and Sam considers it. It's possible the ghouls are already heading for Windom. Maybe they'll stop for a snack mid-trip.

"Let's go see if they have a cemetery."

"Lunch first?"

"It's _ten_."

"But they have homemade pie," Dean wheedles.

They stay. It's pretty good pie.

* * *

  
The place is called Bingham Lake and it's even smaller than the last tiny town—it only has two cemeteries. While Sam's checking official sources, Dean's at the local diner because, aside from having pie, diners are a great place for hearing gossip about gruesome deaths or grave desecrations happening in town, but that's not what Dean hears as he drinks his coffee and pretends to be playing whatever on the laptop. Apparently, Tommy Kearn, like his older brother and his father before him, has gotten his girlfriend 'in a family way' and a hasty wedding is being planned. Old Mrs. Knutsen had been found wandering the park in her housecoat again and isn't it terrible the way her son doesn't take care of her properly? Trish and Les are an item again, though no one thinks it'll last very long this time either. Oh, and hasn't the weather been odd lately?

It is freaking unreal, Dean thinks as he sits and listens.

These people have no clue what's happening to the world around them, yet it's not like he and Sam exist on a different planet. They live here and the things they fight live here. However, to the good people of Bingham Lake, Em En, ghosts and ghouls are just tales told around campfires. This is the world his father had lived in until a demon burned it to ashes. It was the one Lisa had lived in before changelings ripped it apart. It's a world Dean can hardly remember and yet he protects it with his life—lives—his and Sam's lives. Too many lives.

The first time he'd tried to live in that world hadn't gone so well. There were rewards, sure. Lisa's warm body lying next to his on lazy mornings and Ben's smile of pride as they worked on the truck together. But nothing had made up for Sam's absence. Dean had thought his brother was in Hell, stuck with Lucifer inside him, maybe going through what had been done to him. Although it had, or would, only occur to him later that nobody in Hell would've tortured _Lucifer's_ vessel. Except Lucifer himself, of course, which wasn't really better than picturing Alistair's replacement standing over Sam.

That isn't the case this time. Or won't be.

If this ritual works, and Lilith is sent back downstairs before all the Seals break, then Sam won't be going to Hell and the angels' plan will be stopped for another couple millennia. It's only been a year in this life since he last saw Lisa so it maybe isn't too late for him to try again. Maybe he can do it better this time, knowing Sam's alive and safe… safe- _ish_. Safe as he lets himself be. Which hopefully will be safer than they'd been this time last life since his baby brother's not so gung-ho 'hunting's not just a job' like he got the last time they went through this. Now that Ruby isn't whispering her friggin' lies in his fucked-out, blood-soaked ear all the time, that is.

Whoa. Bitter.

And he'd thought he was doing better…

"Dean!" Sam shakes him out of his future past. "Jesus, Dean. Sleep much?"

"No, not really," he answers before his brain catches up to the question. Sam flinches and looks away. "Forget it, man," Dean waves it away. "Nothing you can do to change it."

Sam blinks rapidly for a bit before giving Dean a reassuring smile. "They've had cattle mutilations," he says and it takes Dean a moment to refocus on the case: Adam, half-brother, ghouls; right. He nods at Sam to continue. "Arte Lindstrom had a calf chewed up last night. Sherriff's thinking wolf or bear."

Dean smirks. "Wolves and bears being so common in southern Minnesota." Sam smiles in agreement.

"I talked to Arte. He swears it was sicko humans because the wounds were too tidy to be anything but a knife. Plus, the calf was drained of blood before whatever it was got down to eating."

Dean frowns. It sounded familiar. "Lenore's not around here, is she?"

Sam blinks in surprise. "I don't… I took her to a place in Wyoming."

"Okay, that's good." She'll live too, if this works; and her group or kiss—whatever a vampire pack is called—they won't be called away from her. "What?"

"Just… I'm surprised you remember her."

"Why wouldn't I remember her?" Dean asks in return. "I saved a vamp's life because she was the good guy. It was a rather traumatic event for me." It altered just about everything actually. The traditional bad guys trying to live in peace and harmony, and a human—a hunter—being the evil bad guy who had to be stopped. "Plus she was hot," he adds to deflect any more questions.

It works. Sam makes his 'I can't believe we're related' face and goes back to the map. "The nearest cemetery is here, but there's no guarantee they're there."

"There's never any guarantee, Sam. Not about ghouls, not about anything." Shit, hadn't meant to say that. "I was looking at Dad's journal. He took out all the parts dealing with Windom. He put in a couple lines later about having to take the heads but nothing about how to track ghouls or their habits."

"Sloppy."

"Yeah. I think maybe he was freaked to find out he had a son. The entry's dated about the time Adam would've been one," he says in response to Sam's look. Adam would've been one. Sam would've been seven and Dean would've been eleven. Adam would've been crawling around in diapers and puking up milk while John had them out in some abandoned field practicing their aim.

"Well then, I guess it's a bug hunt," Sam's voice is overly cheerful and Dean wonders if he'd thought of the same ugly comparisons.

The cemetery is peaceful. Free of the snow that coated the fields of the previous town, the November grass is carefully tended. A light breeze rustles the last of the leaves. Mementos, old and new, decorate the stone memorials, adding a bit of color. It all fails to make it look like anything but a place of the dead. It's also an old place of the dead that's grown, unplanned, until it's become a maze of nooks and corners that back onto a wooded acre, which means there's lots of places for the undead to hide.

It takes them nearly an hour to cover the easy bits. Then it's scoping out the edge of the thick brush. Sam spots the broken branches and crushed grass, and a closer look reveals tell-tale brownish-red: Old blood. He whistles his brother over.

"Crumbling shack?" Dean suggests without enthusiasm, looking into the thick brush and seeing nothing but thick brush.

"It's not likely to be an abandoned mine," Sam says in the same tone. Doesn't matter, because either way, they're going in.

They try to be quiet as they wade through the woods but there are too many brittle twigs and branches, the grass is dry and raspy, and there are birds. Dean finally says, "Screw it" and bulls his way through. Sam follows close behind and curses his brother's impulsiveness for the millionth time.

It's not a shack, but it is abandoned.

It had probably been some kind of feeding shed for livestock, as it was more lean-to than shed. It's still big but one end has collapsed completely, making it a dark haven that might appeal to ghouls. Dean's got his sawed-off up and ready before he's finished moving into the isolated clearing. Sam lifts his weapon only moments after. Dean jerks his head and Sam nods understanding. He cuts to the right, moving close to the open end of the structure where he'll have a fairly clear line of sight along its length. Dean goes left and wide. He keeps his distance from the lean-to but makes enough noise to cover Sam's movements. If there are ghouls hiding out in there, they'll jump at Dean thinking he's the only one approaching and that'll give Sam a chance to pick them off from safety.

It's a good plan, they've used it before, but it goes wrong from the start.

A pale shape jumps out of the bush at Dean and knocks him almost to the ground.

"Dean!" Sam calls out in concern even though he knows he should keep his mind on where the other ghoul is.

It's behind the part of the shed he's standing by, as it happens, and it has a baseball bat it brings down in a heavy overhand swing.

He hears Dean's coughed warning but Sam's already shifting. He twists and pulls his arm back. The bat swings by so close Sam can feel the air move: broken wrist if it had connected. He grabs hold of the bat with his left hand and pushes it into the ghoul's stomach. He—it—lets go as it stumbles back. Sam tosses the bat, lifts his foot and kicks the ghoul with all his strength. The creature—in the shape of a teen-aged boy—flies into and through the rotten wood of the lean-to. It's down, stunned, but that won't last long, so Sam steps forward, lifts the shotgun, and pulls the trigger. One ghoul down. He turns to see if his brother's done with his yet.

Dean isn't.

Dean's standing in the clearing holding his head and blinking slowly as if he's having trouble seeing. Or, considering the way he's weaving on his feet, maybe his ears are screwed up. Worse than Dean's confusion is that he's dropped his weapon.

He's dropped his weapon and the ghoul's picked it up and is advancing on Sam with deadly intent.

The monster's in the body of an old man, casual in jeans and insulated plaid jacket, he— _it_ —has a farmer's 'gimme cap' on its head and the shotgun looks natural in its hands. Sam jumps to the side just as it pulls the trigger. He can feel the blast and thinks it may have caught a piece of his jacket.

"I know what you are," it says, voice shaking with anger. "Goddamn hunters." It gets ready to shoot again so Sam rolls towards it, hoping to catch it around the legs and bring it down. It side-steps easily. "Hunters killed our daddy. You've just killed my brother. Now I'm going to kill you."

"I don't think so, bitch."

The ghoul may have picked up Dean's sawed-off, but Dean has the baseball bat and he swings it like a pro: transferring all the power in a line through his body as he twists and letting it flow right to the end of the bat. It connects solidly and Sam can hear the crunch-splat; an ugly sound but welcome. The ghoul topples. The gun falls to the grass-covered ground and the impact makes it go off. The blast echoes in the clearing. Dean's getting ready to swing again but Sam puts out a hand. He points his weapon in the direction of the ghoul's head—not easy when lying on an uneven surface—but he doesn't need pinpoint accuracy for a shotgun at this distance.

The ghoul opens his eyes and blinks at him. He looks lost.

Sam pulls the trigger.

As if the third shot had broken some kind of spell, birds burst out of the woods in a cacophony of wings. It's indicative of how messed up their lives are when both of them look around expecting to see an angel in the clearing instead of glancing up to watch the birds fly.

"Good job, Sam." Dean offers him a hand.

Sam takes it and lets himself be pulled until he gets his feet under him. He checks his coat—sure enough, there's a hole—and then looks at Dean as his brother retrieves his weapon and checks it for damage. "What happened?"

A quick glance, then Dean's eyes return to the gun as he breaks it open to take out the spent cartridges. "What do you mean?" Dean sucks at innocent ignorance.

"Come on, man. I saw you. You froze or something in the middle of a fight. Shit like that can get you killed, can get us _both_ killed," Sam corrects because, God knows, Dean's never cared about his own life, but he's always been overcautious with Sam's.

It works. Dean sighs, shrugs and looks… not _embarrassed_ but something else. Worried, maybe?

"It was okay, at first, then… I dunno." Now he looks at the sky. "I was fighting the fight from before, or the future, that… isn't anymore. I could see the trees but I could also see the house I'm going to kill them in. Or… did kill them in." He finally looks at Sam and he's smiling ruefully. "There isn't a tense for this shit."

"Has it happened before?" He gets a confused frown so he clarifies. "Have events from the other future overlapped events in this one?"

Dean looks away again. "Once," he admits. "In Don's basement. But that was pretty close to what happened before so…"

"You thought it was a factor," Sam completes the theory when Dean trails off.

His brother shrugs again. "Makes sense, right?" He offers a thin smile and Sam thinks that he's having problems with more than his tenses. Before he can call his brother on it, ask when he was going to tell him about _this_ little development, Dean's handing him his weapon and bending to grab the ghoul's arm.

"Let's get these bodies burned before we lose daylight," Dean says as he drags the fake old man over to the fake teen-aged boy, laying them together neatly in a gesture that's oddly thoughtful. "Don't need the locals calling the volunteer fire brigade about a fire in the woods when there's only one path in or out."

"This grass is really dry," Sam stomps on it and it cracks. "We're going to have to watch the fire so it doesn't take the bushes with it." Saying it lets Sam's mind spin along the side of a lot of slippery territory.

Thankfully, Dean agrees with him. "Take the–" Dean stops, grimaces, and then starts up in a softer tone. "Why don't you take the guns back to the car and bring back the salt and lighter fluid. I'll stay here, clear around the shed so we can use it as firewood. That way, if someone does come later, they'll think it was teenagers having a party."

Sam agrees, even though the woods aren't any more fun the second time through. At least the struggle is enough to keep his brain occupied with things other than ghouls, demons and double-vision.

While he's at the Impala, he tosses some food into the small cooler with the beer since they're going to be staying a while—bodies can take a long time to burn. When he gets back, Dean has arranged some of the wood into a kind of bench so that they can sit in relative comfort off the cold ground. Sam hands him a beer. Dean silently takes it and silently drinks it and it makes Sam itchy. Dean's not a complete ass, usually, but there's something in the way he's holding himself that is respectful and thoughtful and Sam's just not that used to Dean behaving that way when they won. Against monsters.

He can't bring himself to ask, doesn't know what to ask really, so he drinks his beer silently, and when he gets hungry, he silently shares the jerky and cheese strings.

"I was thinking about what you said the other day," Dean says out of nowhere as the sun tips over into early evening and the air starts to crisp. The ghouls' bodies are almost completely gone now and all they're waiting for is the fire to die down. Sam keeps quiet. He said a lot the other day.

"Revenge is never over, is it?" Dean asks, but it's not a question. "Our dad killed their dad so they got angry and went after people close to Dad, so we killed them. If they have any other relatives, are they going to take after us next?"

"I doubt they exchange Christmas cards with anyone, Dean."

Dean grunts an almost-laugh and quiet falls between them once again, but it's not an easy quiet, not on Sam's part. This Dean isn't _his_ Dean. Hasn't been since the ghosts started, which are good reasons to have changed, Sam has to admit; and he can also admit that it had pissed him off when Dean had tried to act as if nothing was different after getting out of Hell, but this… It's not the weakness Ruby had trained him to see, but it's still as if Dean's going through the motions of being a hunter, a big brother.

"Why are you getting so morose over a couple of ghouls?" Why are you so different? What aren't you telling me? Why am I losing you?

Dean makes this half-shrug that often indicates he's not going to say anything. Sam bites his lip as he tries to figure out another way to phrase it. Then Dean leans forward, arms on thighs, and Sam's breath catches with the sudden flare of hope.

"How many things have we killed, Sam? You ever count it up?"

Not the question Sam was expecting and he mutely shakes his head.

"Neither have I. Not sure I can remember them all. I was, what? Fourteen the first time Dad took me as back-up on a hunt. Made my first kill when I was sixteen and haven't looked back."

"A lot of them were already dead," Sam points out. Dean doesn't even shrug, like it doesn't even count. "And usually they were hurting someone," Sam adds, because that fact _has_ to count for something.

"You know, most cops never pull their guns in the whole of their careers. And even when they do, not many of them actually kill anything. Ghouls, most ghouls, don't hurt anyone either. Their father didn't, not anyone living, anyway. Ghouls are scavengers, might as well hunt crows and foxes and feral dogs. Yet Dad came along and hunted him down. Why?"

How is Sam supposed to answer that? "Because Dad didn't know how to stop, I suppose."

"Or because it was supernatural and therefore a monster and deserved to die. Kind of like a racist… or maybe a species-ist?" He shrugs it off. "Anyway, tell me who the monster was, Sam." Dean barely looks at him.

"You are fucking _grim_ to talk to," Sam blurts out. "What happened to 'we're allowed to have fun'?" He flinches even as the words come out of his mouth. He's practically daring Dean to go back to being shallow and unconcerned—or at least to wear that persona. Dean's silent and Sam mentally crosses his fingers, hoping against hope that he hasn't messed this up.

He has because Dean turns to him and grins. "Sorry, Sam. I just didn't think a marshmallow roast was appropriate."

It's a classic Dean-deflection but he can't stop his instinctive flinch. Eating something cooked on the same fire as a couple of monsters? "Gr- _oss!"_

Dean stands up kicks the barely glowing embers even further apart—they're done here. "C'mon, dude. If we boot it we can still make it to Bobby's in time for supper. Maybe he's making lasagna."

"I thought we were going to introduce ourselves to our brother." There's a slight pause in Dean's step. Maybe he'd forgotten they'd planned to do that. Or maybe he'd hoped _Sam_ had forgotten. "We don't have to say how we know about him, or why we looked him up, but he should maybe know that he's got family out there, right? I think we should," he continues. "I'd like to meet him."

"He's not even going to be there, Sam. It's November and he's at college. Isn't that, like, major exam time?" Dean's back is high and tight, a huge silent warning to back off. Sam's not going to though, because unless they do this now, he knows they'll never come back to Windom, Minnesota, and the chance will be lost.

"Family's important, right? That's what you always say." Sam lifts his voice, "Or is that only when it's convenient?" They've reached the tidy cemetery and walking's easier. A youngish woman and a small child are sitting beside a headstone, obviously visiting the grave of someone they once loved. Hopefully the person died peacefully.

Dean stops dead. His body has gone beyond tight. He whips around. "No, that's you, Sam. You're the one who can pick us up or ignore us whenever you want to go chasing something else, something better. And you know what? Maybe you weren't wrong."

Sam feels like he's been kicked in the chest.

"Why do you think Dad never told us about this kid, Sam? Huh? Why do you think he ripped those pages out of his journal?"

"Because—"

Dean doesn't give him a chance to finish. "Because he was protecting him! Dad was protecting Adam."

"Dad's dead, Dean." He says it quietly, but firm. They don't have to do what Dad might or might not have wanted anymore. He thought Dean understood that.

"Doesn't matter! He didn't want Adam to have our lives, okay? And we are gonna respect his wishes. Hell, _I_ don't want to have our lives."

"What?"

The fury falls from his brother's face. "Shit, didn't mean to say that."

He tries to turn toward the car but Sam won't let him. He grabs his arm and turns him back. "No, don't run away. What do you mean by that?"

"Do you have to ask?" Dean's voice is weary. "I mean, come _on_. We've got angels and demons on our asses 24/7. The Apocalypse is coming and that might be our fault. I've been to Hell and you are—were—maybe still are—headed there. Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Rufus; all of them, dead. We have no home, no future, just more of the same and a gruesome fucking death at the end of it. Why would anyone want this life, Sam? You didn't. Mom didn't."

"You did. But that was before." It's a quiet realization of how badly he's fucked them up. "If you could walk away now—no Kool-Aid required—would you?"

Dean snorts. "I hate fucking what ifs." Then suddenly, he laughs and the clouds leave his face and the storm is gone from his eyes. "I hate 'em, and now I'm fucking living one. Is that irony?"

It's Sam's turn to snort. "No, man. I think it's just par for our lives."

Dean's smile is the one he used to have and Sam feels something loosen inside him that he'd only vaguely been aware of. They can do this: they can be brothers again. He opens the trunk and they pack away the weapons and the cooler. "You really want to go see him?" Dean asks.

He does, but Dean was right: Adam will be hip-deep in mid-terms right now. He's not even sure which university he's attending. "We can go talk to his mother. Let her know we know they exist and that Dad's dead."

"If she knew what he was, then she's probably guessed that part." Dean's got the door open, letting the breeze sweep through the car. It wasn't especially hot during the day, but it was enough to make the air stale.

"It's always good to know for sure."

Dean tips his head to the side, not arguing but not necessarily agreeing either. "Sleep tonight; visit in the morning, then straight to Bobby's?"

"Deal." He grins at his brother and Dean gives him a small smile in return. He knows Dean doesn't understand why he's pushing for this, and in some ways, Sam doesn't know why he is either. Except having another brother living in the world is another connection to this world instead of the drifting depression Dean's been in. Dean _needs_ family and Sam… Sam needs Dean not to be completely broken by everything Dean did for him (Hell) or that Sam did _to_ him (nearly killed him). If Dean's okay, then that means that Sam'll be forgiven—really forgiven—not that half-assed Buddhist accept-the-suffering thing Dean's always had.

Sam's cell rings as they're pulling out. "It's Bobby," he announces after looking at the photo that pops up. "Hey, Bobby."

" _You boys must be on the side of the angels_ ," he says in greeting and Sam's brain flashes on Uriel in Palestine and he seriously hopes not.

" _My contact says the guy with the book PDF'ed it years ago so it could be used and studied but not get damaged. He says most of the pages are even legible_."

"That's… incredible." Dean frowns at him but Sam ignores the question. "So when are you getting the file or is there a charge?"

" _My virus-checker's munching on it now, and he said no charge, but a donation to the Gutenberg Project would be appreciated_."

"We can do that," Sam says in simple gratitude. He's used the site before to look up books he'd otherwise have no access to. "Next time I'm online."

" _Yeah, that's what I said,_ " Bobby chuckles. " _Never had a book hunt go so easy_."

That's a sentiment Sam can easily agree with. And if he thinks too much about how smooth it's going, he's going to get very uneasy, so he changes the subject to their proposed ETA of late tomorrow afternoon and Bobby promises to bring in extra food. He won't make lasagna but he's got some deer he could roast up. Sam knows it'll be an acceptable substitute as far as Dean's concerned. The call almost ends on an optimistic note, until the old hunter tells Sam to check his damn emails.

" _You ask me a question I gotta assume you care about the answer. If not, I won't bother looking stuff up for you anymore._ "

He gives vague promises to look, the most he can do with his brother in the seat next to him and listening in. Then he ends the call. He holds the phone—he could check his emails on it. Read whatever Bobby found out. He could…

He flips the phone, end over end.

"We should go see a movie," he suggests instead of reading Bobby's message. "In a theater with real popcorn and real butter."

"And real small seats."

"We haven't been to see a movie in a while," Sam ignores him. "We could go see _The Changeling_."

"Dude! I don't want to see a frickin' _monster_ movie," Dean protests.

"No monsters, just Angelina Jolie." Sam defends his choice and Dean has to agree that's a selling point. "Or there's the newest _Saw_ movie." He looks at Dean. Dean looks at him.

"Nah." They both reject that one. They argue without heat, about what to see and Sam knows they'll probably end up at the motel watching whatever's on pay-per-view, but it's comfortable and _normal_ and… nice. He can pretend that things are going to be okay even after Lilith's gone.

At least he can pretend until they reach the motel in Windom and there's a trench-coated angel standing in the middle of their room.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says casual as anything. "You wanna watch a movie with us?"

"I do not know. Will it take long?"

"No need to worry, 'cause you're here on assignment, right?" Dean points out.

Castiel frowns, but Sam thinks it's a kind of agreement. He boots up his laptop. "What did your boss say about Adam?"

"I didn't tell him."

Sam sees Dean looking at the angel, using the same silent communication that they use. He's not sure if he's more disturbed that Dean is doing it, or that Castiel understands. "He didn't ask."

'One thousand shades of truth,' indeed.

Sam opens up his mail to see a message from Rebecca Warren. Little Becky, whose brother's image had been stolen by a shapeshifter who then murdered the girlfriend. They've kept in contact, mostly via emails, but it's been friendly and real. Now she's telling him that her brother, Zach, is getting married. Any chance of him and Dean coming to St. Louis for the wedding?

 _Fuck no_. The St. Louis cops still think Dean killed all those women, and what are the chances of a nosy detective showing up at the ceremony? He'll have to remember to send a card though, and a, shit, a gift or something.

Married… Shit.

He leans back in the seat and just stares at the message because it reminds him of a whole other world he'd once dipped his toe into. A world that was safe and stable and normal. Jesus, he'd been young. And naïve, and possibly stupid for thinking he could escape his past, but he'd been planning on marrying Jess. He'd been looking at rings, thinking about careers and where they'd live. And kids. They would've had tall kids, him and Jess, and he'd wondered if they would be smart and sassy like their mother. Would they have blonde hair or dark?

Sitting here now thinking about it, all he wonders is would he pass his demon blood down into a child of his? How could he risk it?

The answer, of course, is that he can't; not now he knows.

He glances at his brother—his untainted brother—who could've done all those things, but hadn't. Too busy having Dad's back, protecting Sam, saving the world, being the big god-damned hero. And still purely human. Dean could have kids. Dean could settle down with someone, maybe that chick in Cicero—Gumby Girl—with the son who was maybe Dean's already. Sam could be an uncle. They could have a Joe Normal life, once Lilith is gone. House, job, bills and taxes…

He had pictured it easily once. He isn't sure he can picture it now. Normal is looking up from his leftover research into ghouls to see his haunted brother arguing movie choices with a confused angel who looks like a tax accountant.

He leaves Rebecca's email to be answered later and opens the message from Bobby, sent this morning while they'd been in Mountain Lake.

  
 _Good news: my research says demons can't send ghosts across time with messages for people. Bad news: things that_ can _do what you described are God, the angels (maybe), gods or goddesses in charge of an underworld, plus any other entity with power over death. It's the time-travel thing that's got me stumped_ , Bobby concludes. _Time-travelling ghosts are usually the result of a curse, however they can usually only move forward from their own time._

Useless really, but Bobby's message continues.

  
 _Why are you asking? And don't try to fob me off with a lame-ass excuse, boy. One of you is seeing time-travelling ghosts, likely Dean since he knew the name of an obscure demon-fighting book that's exactly what you boys need right now. Does he have any other symptoms? How is it affecting him?_

  
_Is that what happened in Memphis?_

Sam reads the last question and swallows his stomach back down. He could fudge it. He could fudge it until they actually arrive in Sioux Falls because it's probable that one of them will let it slip that he stabbed Dean. He'd told Bobby something, during the days Dean had been in the hospital, but he can't remember what exactly. He'd spent most of his time in a panic heightened by demon-blood and guilt.

He sends back a carefully crafted answer that admits Dean's seeing ghosts and getting their memories that sometimes overlay the real world. That'll give the old hunter something to worry about other than what happened in Memphis.

"Dude," he hears Dean say. "I'm not watching _When Harry Met Sally_ with you. I'd have to explain every damn scene and just, no." Sam laughs. He knows the scene Dean's thinking of.

He exits the browser and closes his laptop. "What else is on?" So they watch _Hot Fuzz_ with the angel, and follow it with _Planes, Trains and Automobiles_ , because it's getting close to Thanksgiving, and he listens to Dean laugh, and he laughs too. Castiel doesn't understand any of it, of course, and teasing Dean as he tries to explain is almost as funny as the damn movies.

It's a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene from _When Harry Met Sally_ that Dean doesn't want to explain to Cas is this one: http://youtu.be/jrJOIIOrEog


	10. Chapter 10

Dean spends way too much time picking out clean clothes. He also fusses with his hair.

He doesn't realize how bad it is until he nearly brushes his teeth a second time. He glares at Sam, daring him to say anything, but his brother's finally being as nervous as this stupid meeting deserves. What the hell had he been thinking of to agree to this? At least _he_ hadn't suggested wearing suits.

It's a nice house, tidy-looking, with a build-up of fallen leaves that's normal and just makes the place look homier somehow. A typical working-class family home in small-town America and a totally foreign land.

This is a fucking _bad_ idea.

"What if she's not home?" Sam asks suddenly. "She's a nurse. She does shift work."

"You checked with the hospital this morning," Dean reminds him.

"She could've been called in."

Rolling his eyes at Sam's nerves makes Dean feel better. Enough that he can walk up the path to the front door. "She's vacuuming," he tells Sam before ringing the doorbell.

' _Hi. Remember that fling you had eighteen years ago with that wounded guy? He already had a family.'_

' _Hi. I'm your son's dad's other son and this is my brother Sam. Does that make you our step-mom?'_

(Hell no.)

' _Hi. I'm Dean Winchester; this is my brother Sam. We just found out about you and Adam, and I'm feeling really fucking jealous and betrayed, and totally unequipped to handle this.'_

He drags in a breath, lets it out in a huff (does it again when the first time doesn't help) then raises his hand to the doorbell to give it another push. The door opens but only as far as the flimsy chain will allow. "Yes?"

She's tall…ish. And blonde. And her eyes are kind of blue. She looks tired and competent and she reminds Dean of Mom in some indefinable way. He knows why Dad was attracted to her. Why he…

"What do you want?"

' _I want to not be here_.'

He can't speak. Sam gives him a look before stepping forward into the silence. "Kate Milligan?" She nods. "I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean. We're John Winchester's sons… his other sons. Can we come in?"

She lets them in and leads them down a hall covered with family photos. Her whole ancestry seems to be displayed there, from men in high collars standing stiffly over women sitting tidily in long skirts to a bright picture of a solemn young man in cap and gown. Adam. Dean stops and looks at it. His interactions with his youngest brother had been… Not real actually, not anymore, but what he remembers hadn't been relaxed 'get to know you' times even when the kid hadn't been a ghoul.

He's got Sam's eyes.

That funny almost-brown-almost-green and Dean wonders if the color shifts according to Adam's moods the way Sam's eyes do. He recognizes his own mouth on the kid, and the shape of John's face. The hair color is the mother's. It's the only thing that says the kid had a parent different from his and Sam's.

"That's Adam. That's your brother." Her voice is way too close and Dean wonders how she got that close without him hearing her.

She gives him a nervous smile that's nonetheless filled with understanding. This is awkward for both of them, the smile says. His lips lift in response. This time when she invites him into the kitchen he doesn't stop.

"I never meant for anything to happen. Neither of us did," she says after she's got them set up with coffee and store-bought cookies. "I'd just graduated from nursing school when Joe brought your father to me. Injured on a job, Joe said. Well, I've known Joe since grade two. I know when he's covering something up and it didn't take me long to get the whole story out of him. Ghouls!" She gives an awkward laugh. "I didn't believe it, except there was your father, hurt and bleeding, and there was Joe, who couldn't lie to save anyone's life."

"Joe paid for my services. Not in money," she went on. "God knows he didn't have any to give away, him just a junior deputy. But he bought food and repaired my windows, things like that. He still does. I was his best man at his wedding." She laughs, "Shocked the hell out of his family, I tell you, but I never did like his mother." Her smile now is relaxed and open, and Dean can see the woman she'd once been. He can see why his father had… with this woman.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

They hadn't discussed who'd break the news to her.

Dean looks at Sam. Sam glares in refusal. "Two years now," Dean says. "Heart attack."

"My kind of heart attack or yours?"

Another hasty look but Sam's jaw is still mulish. "Ours," Dean finally answers. He has to take another breath before adding the rest of it. "He did it to save me."

She covers his hand with hers, rough and callused, but kind. "That's a tough thing to live with." He wants to pull his hand away. He wants to turn his hand over and clutch hers. "I figured he was dead when he didn't send anything for Adam's graduation. Just a phone call the month before, saying things had gotten a little tense and he didn't want to drag it our way."

Suddenly the kitchen blurs and Dean hears an echo of a conversation he's never had. " _That is some job you got, man." "If you're really gonna do this, you can't have those kinds of connections, ever. They're weaknesses. You'll just put those people in danger, get them killed._ "

He blinks and Kate's at the counter, pouring herself more coffee. She lifts the carafe, silently offering refills. Sam takes another cup but Dean says no. He's hardly touched his—it really could use some whiskey—and the thought of pushing more of that into his stomach has it roiling. She stays at the counter afterward, arms wrapped around her torso for comfort and defense.

"Your father told me a little bit about what he does… what he did. Mostly to explain the things he babbled when he had a fever. He told me about his wife, your mother, so I'd know right off that he wasn't staying. I was good with that. Then I discovered I was pregnant. I almost didn't tell him. I didn't want his kind of life in mine. I didn't want any child of mine to do what he did. I wanted my child to be safe."

The kitchen blurs again; his hearing goes fuzzy. " _Do I get a say in this?_ "

"He tried hard to–" She pauses, searching for the proper words. "To be someone else when he was here. I was glad of it but it made it tough on Adam. He couldn't understand why his father couldn't just stay in Windom."

" _He was protecting him."_

"You never told him the truth?"

She looks at Sam and snorts. "What? That every movie monster, every nightmare he's ever had, is real? I don't think so." She pushes away from the counter and somehow Dean knows the meeting is coming to an end.

"I'll tell him about John, that he's dead. And I'll tell him about you, that he has brothers, half-brothers, and I'll even pass on a phone number, but I won't tell him what you do and I'd appreciate it, if he does call you, if you wouldn't tell him either. He doesn't need to think of you as some kind of romantic supernatural bounty hunters. Your father came to me with his guts practically hanging out so I know there's nothing romantic about it."

They can't do anything but agree to the terms and leave gracefully when she takes their mugs in clear dismissal.

"I'd tell you to be safe," she says at the door, "but I don't think it's a concept hunters are familiar with."

"How 'bout good luck, then?" Sam suggests.

"That I can do," she chuckles. "Good luck, both of you. I don't know whether to hope Adam calls you or not." Then she closes the door, shutting them out of her life, out of her son's life, and Dean has to blink away the image of her face smeared with his brother's blood.

"She's tough," Sam says and brings Dean back to the now.

"Yeah," Dean agrees before marching down the walk to the car.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks. "Did she remind you of Mom or something? Because you look pretty pale, man."

Dean stands near the Impala, comforted by its bulky familiarity. "You know how I was seeing the other time we fought the ghouls in the middle of yesterday's fight?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam mocks. "It was only yesterday."

"It's not just happening during fights now." He can't look at his brother. He doesn't want to know how much of a problem this is. If he can't differentiate between his realities…

Sam doesn't respond right away. He looks back at Kate Milligan's house and Dean sneaks a peek. His brother has his little frowny concentration-face on. "It wasn't a fight," he finally says, "but it was certainly high-stress." Fucking right it was high stress. "And it was in an environment you'd experienced, rather will—no, _would have_ —experienced before, so it could be those two factors."

"Kind of like photo-shopping a new layer? Old memories on top of new."

"Sounds right," Sam shrugs.

"So don't worry?" Because Dean is worried.

"So as long as we don't do anymore hunts from one of your other futures you should be good. If it happens when you're driving _then_ I'll worry."

He's lying. Dean knows he's lying, but it still feels good to hear it. He nods, willing to be reassured. "Come on, bitch. Let's go to Bobby's." He winces. Sam's too old for their old insult wars, except that Sam smiles and says "jerk" happily in response.

Weird.

* * *

They've been an hour on the road before Dean remembers that Ellen is alive. Ellen is alive. _He_ is alive and, if he doesn't want his ass-whupped the next time they meet, he should probably let her know. It's easy enough to get Sam to make the actual call, and it helps that Jo picks up, but then Sam puts the phone on speaker so they can both talk anyway. They'd heard he'd gotten out of Hell but it doesn't stop it from getting emotional (he has to clear his throat a couple times) but nothing too sappy. When Jo finds out they're going to Bobby's she tells them to stay there until they arrive, "or Mom will have your balls."

It'll take them a couple of days to finish up their hunt, she says. Dean frowns and interrupts. "You're hunting with your Mom?"

"Yeah, for a while now," she answers happily. "Anyway, we're up here in Washington investigating some of the weirdest things I've ever heard of. I mean the haunted showers make sense, but the life-size suicidal Teddy Bear? That is just something else."

"The wishing well," Dean says before he can edit his mouth. "Look for a coin in the wishing well."

"You think the wishing well is real?"

"I think there might be something in there that makes it _seem_ real, but wishes turn bad, Jo. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I gotcha. A 'be careful what you wish for' thing," Jo says in understanding. "There's a wishing well at the Chinese place. What made you think of it?"

Dean looks at his brother in panic. Sam hardly looks better.

"I, uh…" Fuck, fuck, fuck. He'd always sucked at lying to Ellen, and lying to Jo is lying to Ellen by proxy.

"He's been having visions—flashes—since he got back from Hell." The lie slides easily from his brother's lips and Dean is once again reminded of Soulless Sam, who'd used people and family like pieces on a board.

"Hopefully they're of more use than your visions ever seemed to be," she says, to Sam and his brother snorts in rueful acknowledgement. "Okay, we'll go check it out but it's still likely to be a couple days before we can get to Bobby's, so you'd better not shift your asses until we get there."

Their voices overlap in agreement—timing just a little off so that they sound like echoes of each other rather than one voice. Dean's okay with that.

Another hour and they're pulling up at Bobby's door. Bobby is waiting for them and looking self-satisfied and Dean knows the old hunter has done it.

"It's translated?" is the first thing he asks once he's drunk the laced beer.

"No, but I figured out his system."

Sam frowns, either at Bobby's progress or the beer. It's hard to tell. "What do you mean 'system'?" Sam asks.

"Imbroglione was a clever bastard, I'll give him that," Bobby replies as they head into the house. Dean knows it's just his imagination but he can practically feel the protections lick over him as he crosses the threshold. He always has. "So clever that I'm pretty sure he was definitely the Trickster."

Since he already knows Imbroglione was one of Gabriel's covers, Dean doesn't pay much attention when Sam asks for more details. Instead, he tries to ignore the smell of cleaning solution and fresh baked pie because those aren't real, not yet, not ever. That future is gone. Or will be once they get rid of Lilith.

This would be so much easier if they could just kill her…

"He wrote the most important rituals in code," Bobby responds to an unheard question and pulls Dean out of his bloody daydream. "The surface layer is all the standard fluff: love spells, rituals to bring wealth, all that garbage. In between is what looks to be poetry and riddles and snippets of gossip."

"And that's where the actual rituals are?"

Bobby nods. "I found the spell I told you about: the one that uses the Four Horsemen? The ingredients are hidden in a love potion and, under the flowery crap, boil down to 'get their rings'. Combine those with the incantation I think is buried in a truly horrendous love poem, and once I've figured out the cipher, we'd have a spell that'll open a cage in Hell powerful enough to trap Lucifer himself."

Dean can feel Sam looking at him like he had at the motel when this first came up. He glances at his brother and sees a need to understand, to know everything. He gives a short nod—yes, that's the ritual they'd used—but he vows not to ever go into detail about it. That future is done, finished. It's never coming back.

"So banishing Lilith?"

"I think I've found it; still have to decode it."

"And?"

"And what?"

Sam clenches his jaw in frustration. "Is it going to work?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and I'd know this because so many hunters have performed the ritual to banish the first demon Lucifer ever created."

"This is important, Bobby."

Sam is starting to loom, and Bobby's getting his dander up when Dean steps between them. "It'll work, Sam." Sam's look clearly says that Dean can't know that for sure. "I _do_ know that, Sam. Trust me, it'll work."

"Is that what your ghosts say?" Bobby asks into the heavy silence.

Dean frowns at Sam in accusation and the big sneak has the courtesy to hang his head in embarrassment. "Yeah. Everything indicates the ritual is the real deal."

Bobby stares at him in narrow-eyed assessment. Dean has no problem holding the old hunter's gaze, mostly because he's not lying. Finally Bobby nods. "All righty, then. I'd best get on with deciphering it. Help yourselves to grub."

Dean puts out a hand to stop him. "One more thing." He coughs, clearing the non-existent frog in his throat.

"How prepared are you for a demon attack?"

* * *

  
Dean's got his head buried in the Impala's engine when he hears the rustle of wings. At least it's some warning so, when Cas greets him with his usual solemnity, he isn't completely surprised, and doesn't bash his head on the hard metal of the hood.

"Hey, Cas," he replies as he straightens.

"What are you doing?"

"Fixing a few problems in the engine."

"And this helps you fight Lilith how?"

"Man's gotta take care of his wheels, Cas. Not all of us can zap ourselves where we gotta go. Here," he hands him the work light. "Angle the light over here."

Ever obedient, Cas stands, holding the light. Dean refrains from making beacon jokes… out loud. In his head he's snickering big time until the job makes him focus properly. He's nearly done, be a shame to mess it up now.

"Zachariah is not pleased that you seem to have stopped fighting."

"I could give a rat's ass about pleasing Zachariah," Dean mutters, though he's sure the angel can hear him just fine.

"The seals are still falling," Cas reminds him.

"I'm aware."

"You are not concerned?"

"Not unless we're at the last one already. That's the important one, right? Where all the players have to be in their assigned places." Dean looks up at him, watching his reaction but the angel looks honestly puzzled.

"This is more of your theory that the Garrison is not completely committed to defeating Lilith."

"Yahtzee," Dean confirms. Castiel blinks. Dean sighs and clarifies, "Right. That's exactly what this is. There's what? Six hundred some odd seals—"

"How did you—"

"Lilith only has to break sixty-six, but the only one that really matters is the last one. Running around like headless chickens isn't going to help anything."

Now the angel is frowning and Dean can see a growing anger in his bright blue eyes. In the moment before Cas steps into his space, Dean quickly inserts the final screw and gives it a quarter turn to keep it in place.

"My brethren are dying," Cas growls. "My brothers and sisters. Are you saying their sacrifice is useless?"

"I'm saying, the fight with Hell might not be the only reason your fellow angels are dying."

Castiel's frown deepens. "The two are not connected."

"Aren't they?" Dean asks. "Everyone except you has their own agenda for the End of Days. Things they want to have happen." The air between them practically vibrates with Cas' emotions and Dean is careful to stand in a way that won't provoke the heavenly soldier more. He's sorry he has to push this, but he needs the angel on their side fully and completely, the way he was in his ghost's memories, before the whole Purgatory thing.

"No," Cas cuts him off harshly. If he were human, his breath would be a rasp. "We wish to stop Lucifer rising. To keep him contained in his cage."

"Really? Because Uriel seemed like he'd welcome the fight. Kill a few angels, wipe out a shitload of humans." Before Cas can smite him or disappear in a non-corporeal feathery cloud, the angel tips his head. He's not concentrating on Dean anymore. "What?"

"Demons." His eyes flicker. "A whole troop of them."

"They're after Sam." Dean's already dropping the hood on the Impala and covering her with the tarp he'd spent hours drawing protective symbols on. He drops the last Blessed Stone on the edge of the tarp, gives a quick prayer that it's good enough. Cas is looking intently at him when he's finished. There's something angry in the angel's gaze but Dean doesn't have time to worry about it. "C'mon. We need to go back to the house."

Blue eyes focus on him but the angel doesn't move. "You were expecting this. How did you know?"

"Not now, Cas!" Dean hisses. He can practically see the angel settle ruffled invisible feathers. His glare promises more questions later even as he lifts two fingers to Dean's forehead.

Dean braces himself for the stretching-tearing-floating sensation that he associates with travelling Angel Airlines. Cas doesn't disappoint. When he opens his eyes they're in Bobby's living room. Both Bobby and Sam stare up at them in shock. "Incoming," Dean says (once he's swallowed his stomach back to where it belongs). "Sam, you need to get to the panic room."

"Dean," Sam, not unexpectedly, protests. It's Bobby who reminds him it was the only safe plan, and that he'd agreed to it.

"Hurry," Cas comments as a long silver blade slides into his right hand.

"I hate this," Sam says even as he books it into the basement.

He's barely down the stairs before Bobby's front door is thrown inward, off its hinges and into the far wall. Into the open space stalks an average-looking man, mid-forties maybe, in a business casual suit. Only the eager malice in his pale eyes reflects his true nature. "Hello, honey. I'm home."

"Shit." Dean says because this wasn't supposed to happen again. No way, no fucking way. Of course, his little outburst pulls the attention to him. The demon smiles, low and mocking.

"Well, hello again, Dean."

"Alistair," Dean says and he knows he sounds… off.

"I wondered if you'd recognize me, since I'm wearing a pediatrician now. I should've known you would. After all we were so close in Hell."

"It was the smell," Dean replies. "Dress yourself however you want, you can't hide the smell."

He knows the goad is a risk because Alistair does _not_ like to be mocked, but he needs to get the demon over the threshold and into the trap. It seems to be working—Alistair takes one step forward—but then he stops and glances up at the devil's trap permanently etched into Bobby's ceiling. He sneers and the plaster cracks, "Did you really think your little paint-by-numbers would be enough to hold _me_?" Now he moves eagerly into Bobby's house, confidence and arrogance oozing from him.

Dean backs up and circles to the right, bringing the demon with him: predator and prey. Dean doesn't like the comparison.

Good thing this prey has teeth of its own.

"Honestly?" Dean says. "No. But did you really think that was all we had in place?"

Alistair jerks to a stop. Enochian sigils are much smaller and easier to hide. All it takes is a little blood.

Dean wants to stab him—really, _really_ wants to stab the bastard—but getting that close to the trapped demon would be a bad thing. Alistair is stopped, but not helpless, and he is one of the most powerful demons in Hell. At least that had been the rumor downstairs. All that means is that Dean can't stab him the way he wants to because he can't risk getting grabbed, so it's exorcisms all the way.

At least that was the original plan. Having Castiel here changes it. Completely.

The angel steps up behind Alistair's meat suit and runs his sword right through the throat. Red light flames out of the hole, around the blade. It grows until it's streaming from the body's mouth and eyes. It's bright and blinding and Dean can't close down the dark part of himself that fucking revels in it.

"Good-bye, Alistair. Sweet fucking dreams."

The moment of enjoyment doesn't last very long. Other demons are filing into the house. Bobby has the holy water and exorcism. Dean has the knife and the determination, but it's Cas who rocks it. The angel is a blur as he moves. His blade is like an extension of his arm, whirling, stabbing, and when he isn't using his sword he presses the palm of his left hand against the demon's forehead and somehow _forces_ the demon out.

Sometimes the host is alive, but most often the body drops into a lifeless heap on Bobby's hardwood floor. Still, the angel's method has a better survival rate than Ruby's knife, and Dean will feel bad about that later. Right now he's just going to give the fucker an extra twist and let it pop inside its meat suit a little more.

"Dean, drop!" Bobby calls and Dean ducks as instructed, blade withdrawing with a warm splash of blood. The blast of rock salt pushes a demon, sneaking up behind him, right over his back. Not one to miss an opportunity, Dean sinks Ruby's fancy etched blade deep into the body and watches the demon inside her flash and die.

He shouldn't like it as much as he does.

Whatever guilt he would feel at killing innocents (if any are still alive) is buried under the powerful fizzing in his blood. Adrenaline, life or death, power, revenge: it's all part of the cocktail racing around his blood, as addictive as any drug or demon's blood. If this is what Sam felt like with Ruby… Maybe he should be more understanding.

Then suddenly he isn't in Bobby's house fighting demons. He's in a barn, or a warehouse, someplace that isn't _now_. He blinks to clear the overlay from his vision and that moment's disorientation makes him vulnerable. He's plucked from his position on the floor and tossed into the bookshelf in the corner.

Ow, ow and fucking ow.

At least his vision clears. Just in time for him to see a demon in a big, bearded dude's body reach for him. The demon's hand is Sam-sized and fits easily around the important part of his neck—the part he uses to breathe. The demon squeezes. Dean chokes.

"Let's see you protect your brother when you're dead," it growls at him.

Dean's dropped the knife—he really should tie that thing to his wrist—but he's not completely helpless. He digs around in his pocket for the flask he keeps there. He nearly drops it when the demon shakes him by the neck when Bobby shoots it full of rock salt. It was a nice try by the older hunter, but that doesn't make Dean breathe any easier. He fumbles with the cap, dropping it unseen onto the floor. He tosses the liquid up into the demon's face and is rewarded with a tightened grip on his neck that nearly makes him black out. Then the pressure is gone. The demon is grabbing its face, screeching against the pain.

Dean drops, searching both for a full breath and for the demon-killing knife. He gets the one but not the other. A huge foot connects with his ribs, lifting him with physical force this time and throwing him back into the bookshelf. He drops and dozens of heavy hardbacks fall on top of him. He thinks, 'Bobby should put all his stupid books in one room, away from the fighting.' Then he thinks, 'this really fucking hurts.'

The boot manages to catch Dean right where Sam's knife had gone in. Angel-powered healing or not, it has been only three weeks; only twenty-some odd days to recover from a serious injury.

Why the hell does he do this shit?

There's a pained yell from the basement. "They're trying to get into the safe room," Bobby says, even though Dean doesn't need the play-by-play.

"Sam Winchester belongs to _us_ ," the big demon declares with a smirk. It fades into a red-white flare as Cas' blade penetrates its throat.

"This level is clear," Cas says as the body collapses to the floor. Unseen wings flutter and the next thing they hear—aside from Dean's muted groans—is the sound of demons dying in the basement.

Bobby's hand is under his arm, hauling him up. It doesn't make him feel better. "We should go help," the old hunter says.

"You go," Dean waves him on. "I'll follow." His voice, already scratchy and rough from the damage he'd done to his larynx in Hell, sounds like glaciers cracking. Feels like it too.

Bobby takes him at his word, or maybe he's just anxious to get all the demons out of his home. He hurries off and Dean leans on the cabinet and tries to take a controlled breath. Cracked ribs and bruised muscles, he self-assesses, with the possibility of pinkish pee to add the final bit of joy to his job. It's odd how cynical he feels after having talked to his future ghosts, especially Dead Dean the First. He used to believe—to hope, but it's nearly the same thing—that what they did had them firmly on the side of the righteous.

Since meeting the angels—surely the most 'righteous' things God ever created—and realizing what a bunch of lying assholes they are, he's had a different view. He and Sam do this because they can, because they were trained to it and they know how, but he's not sure anybody would appreciate it even if they knew, so who the hell are they risking their lives for?

Or maybe this is just another form of selfishness. He doesn't want to die in four years, or two. He doesn't want to die in ten or twenty. He doesn't want that for Sam either.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! What happened to me? Oh my God!"

Oh, hey, look: a survivor. Exactly what they're fighting for.

* * *

  
In the end there are five survivors out of the twenty or so demons that had attacked. There would have been more if they could've stopped the bleeding, but Dean had been well-trained and aiming for vital organs was automatic, plus the host bodies obviously didn't have that Dagg-Whatsit thingy to help them heal. All they could do is make them comfortable.

Sam is off talking to the survivors, helping them 'transition' or some psycho-babble bullshit thing like that: calling loved ones, arranging to get them home. He and Bobby are taking care of the bodies. Castiel was giving the perimeter a quick check, making sure there were no lurkers waiting to catch them unaware. Before he'd taken off, he'd given Dean an evil look that the hunter couldn't interpret as anything other than a threat. Now the angel's back and glaring at him from the side of the room.

"You know," Dean says as he looks through the pockets of another one, "if we try to burn all these, it's going to be one hell of a fire. Won't somebody notice? You're isolated, Bobby, not invisible."

Seventeen bodies. Seventeen people who'd had some weakness a demon could exploit to get inside. Desire for their neighbor's car—or their neighbor's spouse. Anger at their boss, laziness, the occasional petty thought, or in other words, they'd been human. Average, ordinary humans getting through their days as best they could.

"I know, but it's not like we have a great deal of choice here."

Dean swallows back a sigh. They'd have families somewhere, people who would worry about them. People who'd put up posters and go on TV and talk about how their (wife, son, sister, brother, father) had been a good person and hadn't had (drug, legal, money, health) problems. Nothing to explain why they'd walked away from their lives. Never knowing that they hadn't walked away, that they'd been taken.

"I will take them."

Dean looks up at Cas. "You'll–"

"I will take the bodies and place them in areas where they will found. So their families will have peace."

Dean has to look away from that too-bright gaze. He clears his throat. "Thanks, Cas." A cough. "I appreciate it."

Castiel stares at him and Dean can't tell whether it's anger or exasperation he sees in the angel. "You have been lying to me, but you are still a good man. When I return, we will talk." Then there are wing sounds and the angel, and the bodies, are gone.

Dean looks up to see Bobby's slightly amused gaze. "Lying? To an angel? Tsk, tsk."

"I'm not. Technically, I just haven't told him everything so that's not lying," Dean fumbles. Bobby's eyebrow goes even higher and Dean can hear the silent 'moron' in the movement. His jaw clenches. "It's for his own protection."

"Oh yeah, because that argument always works so well on grown-ups. How old are angels again?"

"Shut up."

Just then Sam walks through the door, carefully propping it back up on his way. It's not much of a threshold but it's what they've got. November in South Dakota without a door. It's like an Urban Dictionary definition of cool.

"Saw the last one off on the bus. Good thing you had Valium." He rolls his eyes to indicate how much fun it had been to peel the survivors off and send them home.

"Maybe they can convince themselves it was all a drug-induced nightmare," Dean suggests. "People are pretty good at deceiving themselves."

Sam snorts in agreement. "I think most of them are gonna try." His brother stares down at the floor. "Where are the, um, others?" The bodies, he means. He was going to help carry them out into the yard.

"Castiel took them."

"I have placed them near emergency response locations in each of their home cities. As they no longer have wallets or valuables–" Castiel stares at Dean in disappointment "–they will likely assume robbery was the motive."

"It's still better than demon possession, Cas," is all Dean says.

"It is also marginally better than lying to your allies. You knew this attack would happen; you were prepared." Dean thinks about denying it but Castiel is stalking towards him and it's obvious the angel's temper is close to the surface. "You used Enochian wards and traps that you should not have known existed. Even if you had been so informed, the only written record of them extant on Earth is in a collapsed underground repository in southeast Turkey. I doubt you have had a chance to travel there since the last time we spoke."

The panes of the windows rattle slightly as he approaches the hunter. Dean plants his feet to face him, even though he can practically _see_ Cas' wings rustling in agitation. "You knew about Sam Hain, and the importance of stopping him. You knew about the ghouls that threatened your half-brother before he was in danger." Now he's so close that Dean can feel the puffs of air he releases as he speaks.

"You were aware of the political machinations of my superiors and my brethren when I, who am surrounded by them, was in the dark." He lifts an imperious hand, forestalling any argument Dean might make on that point. "Your soul was changed when I brought you up from Hell but nothing that would explain all of these." He leans forward and stares at Dean, as if trying to pull the truth out through his skin.

Dean clears his throat nervously. "I've, uh, met your brother Gabriel. We talked." Just because it was in another life time doesn't mean it's a complete lie.

Behind Castiel, he sees Sam's mouth close with a snap that should've been audible even across the room. His brother is screwing up his face in an angry version of 'what the fuck' so Dean tries to tell him, silently, to trust him.

"Gabriel has been missing for millennia," Cas says and drags Dean's attention back to his immediate problem. He doesn't back off, so the hunter is forced to tilt his head down to see his face.

"I know." A quick swallow to moisten his dry mouth. "We thought he was a trickster god when we first ran across each other."

"That was two years ago," Sam interjects on cue. Good boy. Cas whips his head around to stare at Sam, who visibly flinches. "We stabbed him with a wooden stake—"

"Which should have killed him," Dean adds.

Sam nods, "Right. It should have. _If_ he'd actually been a pagan trickster god. Except he showed up last year. Kept, um, kept killing Dean in order to get me to accept–" He has to take a breath. "Accept Dean going to Hell."

"Why did he reveal himself to you? Why didn't he go to Michael or Raphael?"

"You're kidding, right?" Dean blurts out and Castiel's eyes narrow dangerously. "Because all they want is the Apocalypse. They want Lucifer out of the box so they can fight, and then Michael will kill him, or you know, be killed. Gabriel doesn't want that. It's why he took off; he couldn't take the fighting anymore."

"You're saying that he's been helping you, all this time."

"We've learned a couple things from him." It's the closest he's come to an outright lie and he's sure Castiel is going to call him on it.

This time Bobby saves his ass. "He wrote a book with a method to banish Lilith back to the deepest parts of hell. _But_ ," the hunter adds in disgust, "he layered so many puns and riddles and _nonsense_ onto it, that I'm not sure you can call it help."

Castiel considers what they have said, gazing at the roof looking for divine inspiration, before declaring that he has to tell Zachariah. "If Gabriel is working to stop the Apocalypse, then it's my duty to inform the Garrison. I'm sure they will be glad of the assistance."

"Don't get your hopes up, pal," Dean mutters. Castiel glares but says nothing so Dean continues. "And Gabriel isn't going to be too happy with having his cover blown either."

"It was he who chose to become involved in the affairs of humans. It is a logical outcome that the Garrison would become aware of his activities."

"Yeah, well. As long as he doesn't come back and smite us." It's a joke… mostly. Castiel gives it the attention it deserves, which is to say that he disappears in a flutter of invisible wings. They wait, frozen in place, until they're sure he won't be back right away and that none of his asshole relatives have taken his place.

"The Archangel Gabriel?" Bobby asks first. "Really?"

"Yeah." Dean tries for a disarming 'gee shucks' smile, but neither Bobby nor Sam look mollified.

"We can't handle an archangel, Dean."

"Besides, the ritual calls for a plain old angel. That's several steps below an archangel in terms of age and experience."

"And power," Sam concludes. "You're gonna get killed. Again."

"We're not going to use Gabriel," Dean assures them.

"Then Cas–"

"No!" Dean's gut roils at the mere suggestion. "Just no. We're not going to kill Cas."


	11. Chapter 11

"We don't know that it will kill him and he's the easiest angel to get at," Sam tells him again. In that simple statement Dean can once more see the bones of the stone-cold killer his brother had become and it makes Dean shiver. Maybe Sam doesn't need to be pulled out of Hell to become soulless, since he's doing a good imitation of it now. Maybe he just needs a couple more years of this life forcing him to choose the deaths of innocents as part of 'the greater good'.

It's a fucking scary thought.

"He'd probably volunteer, but I keep telling you, he's one of the good guys and we don't do that to our friends." Neither of them look convinced and Dean can admit they've got reason. They don't know Castiel as well as he will, or would. Maybe they never will… huh.

"I think I know who's going to show up," he offers as a distraction.

"You think," Sam repeats.

Bobby's got his arms wound over his chest, holding back some of his choicer comments, Dean's sure. "We've got a lot riding on this, Dean," the older hunter says half-threat, half-soothing.

"That's an understatement," Sam growls, all threat.

"Don't worry. This'll work." It had better work.

The front door, unstable in its frame, falls with an echoing boom. The "Mother of God!" they hear almost matches it for volume. Most of the tension drains out of them, out of the room. Sam's the first one moving.

"Ellen?" He steps into the front hall.

"What kind of people you letting into the place?" she says, only half joking.

"Um, demons?" Sam answers tentatively. "But we won, if that counts."

She looks around at the cracked roof, the holes in the wall, the blood on the floor, and snorts. "The place needed remodeling anyway." They ignore Bobby's indignant "hey" in the background. She turns to the big hunter, examining him up and down. "You're looking good, Sam." Sam smiles ruefully, and glances down in embarrassment.

That's when she slaps him.

"Are you allergic to giving me peace of mind? Six months I don't hear one word from you. I don't know if you got Dean out of his deal, or what's happening with you. Then— _then_ —Dean comes back from Hell and I have to find out from Rufus. And still, it's another two months before you pick up the phone." Her voice cracks on the final sentence and her eyes are moist.

Sam's got his hand over his stinging cheek but, seeing her distress, he lowers it. "I'm sorry, Ellen," he says, opening his arms and moving closer.

She glares at him, not yet willing to give in. "You'd better be. You better put me on speed-dial, kid."

"I will," Sam assures her and she lets herself be folded against his chest, protected and soothed. "I know it's no excuse but I was pretty messed up."

"We all were," Jo says as she picks her way over Bobby's mangled door. Sam opens an arm and invites her in. She's actually more hesitant than her mother but she too gives in, letting herself be comforted by Sam's giant frame and outgoing personality. It's a gift Dean has often envied. It was a long time after Dad's death, in the months leading up to Hell, that Dean realized that he'd never been allowed to be as open and vulnerable as Sam. He'd always had to be the strong one, dependable, alert, aware of the dangers that could be hiding in the corner. It's been minutes, and the three of them are still hugging in the hall, rocking slightly with their eyes closed, in front of a huge gap in the house that anything could charge through.

Should he go up and join in the group hug, he wonders even as he knows he's not going to. He finds it hard to let go, to be unguarded with anyone, even Sam. If he does get together with Lisa, is she going to be able to accept that or will it eventually drive them apart? They hadn't really had enough time before, or rather, he hadn't been in the proper head space to do it.

His chest feels a little tight but he's reassured by the glimpse he has of Bobby, bringing out the silver flask full of holy water. Bobby would die for either Ellen or Jo. Dean knows this, but it's good to know the old hunter doesn't let sentiment stop him from taking precautions. Makes him feel less like a psychotic, paranoid freak loner. Or at least less alone.

The three in the hallway finally break apart and Ellen moves toward Dean. He braces himself for the slap—even though Sam already got one that, maybe, relieved the hunter's frustration with them—but she doesn't hit him. Instead, Ellen grabs his face and examines him, tilting his head this way and that until she drags him down by his jaw so she can see his eyes. He hopes all she can see is green…

"Kid, you look like shit."

Yeah, he didn't think he'd get lucky.

He doesn't bother trying to play it down or distract her; Ellen won't put up with that kind of bullshit. He goes for rueful acceptance instead. "I'm doing okay, I guess," he says with a roll of his shoulder.

"It's better than the alternative, right?" Jo smiles at them. " 'Cause then we'd have to exorcise you." The joke is a little forced and wobbly but it's a good effort. Dean's smile broadens in appreciation.

"Jo!" says Ellen, shocked and embarrassed. "What a thing to say."

It's all Dean needs to release the last of the useless tension their arrival had caused. He gives Ellen his widest 'hey, darlin' smile. "The best part is being able to see the both of you lovely ladies." He gives Jo a wink, ignores his brother's eye-roll, and bends over to give Ellen—the only living person he's ever allowed to be even the slightest bit motherly towards him—a kiss on her rosy cheek.

"You're a snake charmer, alright." Ellen removes her hand from his chin and gives him a couple sharp raps on the cheek. "Too bad I'm not a snake. You got the flask ready, Singer?" A quick drink, a pause to check for smoke, then she's handing it over to her daughter. Jo drinks and breathes out like a kid making frost on a window. No smoke. "Good enough?"

Bobby nods and smiles. "You know it. Welcome back."

* * *

  
"So… explain it to me again. How's a devil's trap's going to hold Lilith?"

"It's a very special devil's trap." Bobby has the maps and the drawings and the incantation spread out on his desk. Everyone, except Dean, is gathered around, staring at them. "The circle needs to be where innocent blood was spilled, the more the better. The ink is made out of rowan berries, black onyx powder, holy water, salt—"

"And blood of a lamb," Ellen finishes for him. "That part I got. It's the rest of it that seems a bit in fairyland."

"Why is Sam the agent for the forces of Hell?" Jo asks. "I know he was possessed once…" She can't look at Sam as she says it. It doesn't matter that Meg had been in charge when he'd attacked her. The demon had used his body to overpower and terrorize the young hunter, and physical triggers can be hard to shake, still Bobby leaves it to Sam to answer her. It's his story to tell, after all.

"Remember all those kids I had Ash look up? The ones who'd had a parent die in a fire when they were six months old?" She nods. "They all had special powers: visions, mind control, super-strength. Comic-book stuff."

Jo's mouth is open. "No shit," she says, impressed.

"Joanna Beth. Language." Jo rolls her eyes and Sam has to smile. Being a daughter seems as much fun as being the baby brother.

"The Yellow-Eyed Demon visited all of us when we were six months old. Azazel, that was its real name, bled into our mouths. That's where the power came from."

"Whoa," Jo says, but this time her voice is filled with sympathetic horror. It makes Sam uncomfortable, like he's ten again and realizing how different his life is from all of his classmates and the kids he wants to call friends. 'Freak' doesn't even begin to cover it.

"He was doing prep work for the Apocalypse," he says to get the attention off him and his… situation.

"The Apocalypse?" Ellen asks in disbelief.

"Yes, the Apocalypse," Bobby says impatiently. "Boiling seas, red skies, End of Days, the whole bit. I sent you the memo after the Witnesses, remember?"

"Don't get snarky with me, you old coot. You've been sending out so much junk lately I started to think you'd been taken over by a spam-bot."

"You didn't read it."

"Not everything that drops from your lips—or gets typed by your fingers—is a pearl, Singer."

"It doesn't have to be a pearl to be important," Bobby gripes back.

" _You_ might think so. Doesn't make it true."

Sam very carefully doesn't look at Jo since she's doing a worse job of hiding her giggles than he is. God, they sound like a crotchety married couple. What makes it even funnier is that they'd both be horrified if he mentioned it. Finally, he lifts his hand and clears his throat. "Guys. Hey, guys!" They pause and look at him. "The ritual?"

They look at each other sheepishly, and just like that, they're back to being hunters: professional and calm. They continue talking about the ritual—what's required, when and where—and they work on deciphering the actual _words_ which, oh joy, oh bliss, the Trickster put into _Dog_ Latin, until they get to the sticky part. The part Dean hasn't really shared with them yet.

"Where is your brother anyway?" Bobby asks after a quick look around the room reveals that Dean's not even in the room anymore.

"I dunno," Sam answers. "He was working on the car earlier."

Bobby snorts, "And he thinks messing with it is somehow more important than stopping the End of Days?"

All Sam has to do is look at the older hunter to make him realize just what a stupid question that is, although he has a point. "He's been having a hard time keeping himself grounded," he offers.

It's a simple explanation and one Sam's not sure is even relevant, but it's true and it worries him. It's worried him ever since the ghouls and it's not his only concern when it comes to Dean. His brother is depressed and off his game, uncaring of his safety in a way that rivals those first few weeks after Cold Oak and his deal. Even before Carthage and the rugaru, they'd been… wrong and it had gotten worse after Memphis. They're still a good team, they still work smoothly together on a hunt, but everything else feels jerky and off rhythm.

Maybe it was the lies and the sneaking around and all that shit, but it seems like there's more to it. Like Dean hasn't forgiven him for killing him in some future that's not going to happen anymore. And, yeah, okay, that sucked—or would have— _but_ _it's not going to happen anymore_.

Quite frankly, Sam's sick of being held accountable for stuff he hasn't even done. This whole thing where they're not brothers? He's had enough of that, and it pisses him off that _Dean_ was the one who called _him_ on _his_ behavior, but here _he_ is acting secretive as fuck and shying away from… from _them._

"I'll go talk to him."

He doesn't let Bobby or Ellen argue or give advice or any of the other 'helpful' things they might think of. He grabs a couple beers from the fridge and then he's out the door and heading to Bobby's work shed. He's got long legs. He uses them well. It takes him hardly any time to reach the hut where, sure enough, Dean's got his head under the Impala's hood.

"Hey," he says, civilly enough.

Dean looks over and right at the beer he's offering. "Oh, God. We're going to have one of those 'talks', aren't we?"

"You love 'em. Don't bother lying." He manages a smile and Dean's face relaxes a little. "Bobby asked me if you thought fixing the Impala was as important as saving the world," Sam teases as they shift over the workbench. "I told him it was a stupid question."

Dean chuckles as he leans against the table, giving Sam the little roller stool. Sam lets his brother take a long swallow before bringing up the reason for this chat. It's routine, familiar. Kind of like the salute dueling swordsmen make before a match, but whatever. It works for them.

"You had another one of those moments, didn't you."

Dean looks down, expression closed so that Sam knows, whatever Dean was reliving, it hadn't been pleasant. He waits. Dean'll cave.

"I have this memory of us: you, me, Ellen, Jo and Castiel; heading out to Carthage to face down the Devil."

Definitely not going to be pleasant. Sam braces himself.

"The night before we spent at Bobby's; just drinking, shooting the shit." He stops and laughs. "I made a pass at Jo."

Sam's mind blanks. "What? No way."

Dean shrugs. "All of a sudden, she looked hot."

"She… Did she? Wait. No. I don't want to know." God, he sounds like a teenager hit with hormones and a crush.

"Relax, man. She turned me down."

"Smart girl."

One of Dean's eyebrows lifts in rueful acknowledgment and he's smiling even as he takes another drink. It falls away pretty quick though, and then he's rubbing his thumb over the label, staring at it as if it's going to turn into gold while he watches. "The next day she and Ellen were both dead."

There is nothing Sam can say to that. He doesn't even try.

"I kissed Jo good-bye." Dean's laugh this time is hollow. "It didn't even work. They died for nothing."

"It's not going to happen," Sam tries to reassure him. "Not anymore."

"Not like that, no, but, eventually, some other way probably. And for what?" There it is again: that defeatism that's been infecting his brother since Memphis or rather, since Hell. It scares him and pisses him off and he needs to stop it. Now.

"What is up with you, man? You're the one who told me that saving people, making sure that what happened to _our_ family doesn't happen to others was important, was worth doing. When did it change?"

"Because it didn't change anything. I've died, you've died. We get hurt and bashed up and we work our asses off trying to do the right thing—the _noble_ thing. But in the end, we're just pawns in some celestial grudge match that started back when the Earth was created and humans had barely crawled out of the water. Heaven and Hell don't care if we're 'good people'." He even makes quotey fingers. "They just want us to cave in to them and play our roles, the roles _they_ picked out for us."

"We still save lives, Dean," Sam argues. "It's still worthwhile."

Dean looks at him and his eyes are distant, assessing. "I know it is. But it's not the only worthwhile thing out there."

"Are you talking about college again, because I swear—"

"Naw, man," Dean cuts him off. "That's your choice, right? But what about family, kids? Neighbors that know your name and invite you over for a barbeque?"

Oh, whoa, is all Sam can think. It's not completely unexpected and yet it still is. Ever since the djinn infected Dean way back the second year they were together, and then he'd seen Gumby Girl in Dean's dream when they'd hunted that guy with the dream root, he'd known that Dean was much more of a nester than he'd ever thought, but this… This is not just some fantasy that a djinn forced on his brother. Dean's been thinking about this.

"What does that mean? Are you just going to walk out?"

Dean shifts uncomfortably. He takes another drink. Sam unclenches his jaw. The moment before he's about to give into the temptation to beat some answers out of him, Dean sighs. "I dunno. Not all the way? I mean, Mom's parents managed it. Bobby has a place—"

"So did Olivia Lowry and Carl Bates," Sam points out. "Remember them? You think the Witnesses cared whether they hunted full or part-time; had a home or a family?" So he's angry, so what? He's allowed to be pissed and, if he's honest, a little scared. Dean's going to leave him.

Again.

"Bad stuff happens to good people all the time," Dean says back, voice calm and level with the totality of his belief. "Makes no difference if it's supernatural or completely human monsters that cause it. It's going to happen. We can't save everyone and I think, I'm pretty sure, backing off's the only way we're going to save ourselves."

"Is this a ghost thing?" Because that would explain it. If one of Dean's ghosts had come back and said "THOU SHALT NOT HUNT" then Sam could understand why Dean's changing on him like this.

"I wish. Fuck, do I wish," Dean says.

Not a ghost thing then.

"This is so messed up," Sam says. "I'm finally okay with hunting—hunting with you—and you want to get out?" He has nothing but this now. There's no Jessica for him to set up house with. All he's got is his brother and it looks like he's going to bail. "How can you do that?" He glares at his brother, demanding an answer.

"I can do it because it's a good idea—for both of us. I mean, come on, man, how many times have I watched you die? How many times have you watched me die?" Sam knows he flinches. It's still a sore spot. Will always be a sore spot. "We've been front and center during this whole thing, and I'm thinking, it might be a good idea to, I dunno, fly under the radar—"

"Exit stage left?" Sam suggests mockingly.

"Laugh all you want, but you're supposed to be Lucifer's vessel—the Boy King of Hell—Gordon won't be the only hunter out there who thinks he can save the world by killing you."

"Run and hide." It goes against everything they were taught, everything he's come to believe.

"Weekend hunts," Dean counters, "instead of joining the National Guard."

"Run and hide," Sam repeats, but this time, he doesn't bother to hide the sneer.

"Fuck it. Whatever." Dean pushes off from the bench tossing his empty bottle into the large garbage bin with a rattle and a crash. "You're a grown man. You can make your own decisions about what to do with your life." Sam nearly smiles at that—would've if he hadn't been so annoyed by Dean's hypocrisy. Dean has never let Sam make his own decisions and he doesn't expect his big brother to start now. However, it's obvious the conversation is over: the music is up and Dean's under the hood and he might as well have said 'go back to the house, Sam'.

He does go back inside because he has to reassure everyone that Dean hasn't been kidnapped by evil angels. They finish going over their strategy, polishing up some rough edges and making some contingency plans. It's productive and for the first time since Ruby— _lied, twisted, used—_ since Ruby had him convinced that killing Lilith was the only way, he feels in control of his life. _He's_ making the decisions. _He's_ got the power. It's a good feeling.

Damn right he's a grown man.

When Dean comes in for supper, he expects his brother to start up with retirement planning but Dean says nothing. A couple times he thinks Dean's going to say something, but then he gets this face, like he's being forced to eat green peppers, and he keeps his mouth shut. In fact, he keeps his mouth shut through most of the meal. He eats. He listens to the table talk. He grunts in the right places, even drops a comment or two. But that's it. No flirting, hardly any teasing and certainly no mention of life after Lilith.

It freaks Sam out.

Dean's got to know that Ellen and Bobby would probably back him up on the idea, but there's not a hint that he's anything but the enthusiastic, dedicated hunter he was before he went to Hell.

They give Ellen and Jo Bobby's spare room, which means they'll be sleeping in the front room. As everyone gets ready for bed, Sam braces himself. He's sure that, once the others are in bed and it's just them, Dean will start trying to convince him that he's right and Sam's wrong, because that's the way Dean is. Sam waits, arguments and counter-points prepared, but Dean only mumbles a vague "Sleep well, Sam" while he rolls himself in the blanket and turns his back.

Is it some kind of ploy? A reverse-psychology thing where, because Dean doesn't pressure him into a particular decision, Sam wants to do what Dean wants him to as some kind of a reward? Or it could be he's actually trying to treat Sam like an adult with a brain. It's an odd thought, and makes Sam uneasy. Which is stupid, of course, because he's been bugging Dean to give him some respect since they were teenagers, so this is a good thing. It has to be.

So why does he feel so put out?

He spends the rest of the night trying to figure out an answer but when dawn brightens the windows, he still hasn't got one.

* * *

  
It's a six-hour drive to Wounded Knee and that's if they drive straight through, no stopping. There's no particular time that they have to do the ritual—day or night hasn't seemed to make any difference to Lilith's power—so really, the only reason to be up at this God-awful time of the day is because someone made coffee and he can smell it.

Also, the floor is a damn uncomfortable bed.

Not for the first time since he started getting visits from his dead selves, Dean thinks he's getting too old for this. Body and spirit both slowing down.

He shambles into the kitchen and heads straight to the coffeepot like one of Sam Hain's zombies looking for brains. Some days it feels like it's the only thing that gets him moving, so the comparison is a good one. He grunts at his brother who, smart man that he is, doesn't try to talk to him. He wishes he could tell Sam his realization about zombie-coffee-brains, but he doesn't think his brother would appreciate it right now. Not the way he's been staring and glaring and itching for a fight. Dean's determined not to give him one. His new mantra: Sam is an adult. Sam can make his own decisions.

Sam is a friggin' idiot, he thinks, and he scowls into his mug of black heaven.

No, he's not, he acknowledges a moment later. As much as Dean has tried to explain all this shit to him, Sam can't really know the _immediacy_ of it. When his ghost filled him with memories of being torn to pieces and munched on at Sam Hain's Monster Mash, Dean felt it: his muscles tearing, his blood pouring, teeth biting into him. He heard it: joints popping, liquid slurping, guts sliding against each other…

And that is so not a good thing to be thinking about first thing in the morning. He rubs his stomach in soothing circles.

"Getting an ulcer?" Sam asks. Dean's on his second cup of coffee so he knows it's okay to talk.

"If I am, I haven't died from it yet." Shit. That was a little insensitive. "Sorry. Bad joke."

"Actually, it may have been one of the deaths the Trickster put you through. I can hardly remember them all."

Dean carefully doesn't laugh or make references to the Bill Murray movie: Sam doesn't, and likely never will, be able to laugh at what happened in Broward County. Even though death by rotten taco is right up there with toilets from a collapsing space station.

"If I knew that you were going to die tomorrow, I'd do everything I could to change it," Sam says out of the empty air.

Dean stares at him. "I know you would."

"Because you're my brother, and I love you." Which would be much more touching if Sam didn't sound so pissed.

"Okay. Random."

"I know I messed up in Memphis—even before that, with Ruby—and I shouldn't have stabbed you, I know that."

"I know you know that, Sam." It is way too fucking early for this, Dean thinks, and gets up to pour himself another cup of liquid brains. He lifts the pot up in offer but Sam waves him off.

"If you know that, then why can't you forgive me?"

Okay, what? "Huh?"

"You forgave Dad for just about everything from neglect and near abandonment when we were kids, to being an obsessed asshole. Hell, I _shot_ you…twice, and you forgave me that.

"Whoa, just wait," Dean holds up his hand. He should've stayed in bed; should never have succumbed to the siren smell of fresh-brewed coffee. "What haven't I forgiven you for?"

Sam glares at him in hurt disappointment. "For stabbing you, in Memphis."

"Where do you get that idea from?"

"That's why you want to get out of hunting, right? To get away from me?"

Dean can't help it, he laughs in stunned realization. "Is that why you're so pissed at me?"

"Don't I have a right to be?" Sam looks really upset now, and kind of betrayed, so Dean knows he has to pull in his—totally understandable—amusement.

"Sam, I'm not upset about getting stabbed—I mean, I don't want you to ever do it again, but I thought about it and I figure it's partly my fault, because I could've timed that way better. Killing Ruby after you'd just… swapped all sorts of bodily fluids I'm never going to mention again, was not my most brilliant idea ever–"

"You have brilliant ideas?" Sam looks at him with hopeful eyes, willing to be reassured and Dean sighs in exasperation. Fucking adult, his ass. Sam's still a teenage girl inside.

"You want reasons? Number one; I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of all the monsters and the angel crap and the damn Apocalypse. Having the forces of upstairs and down working against us, it pisses me off and makes me want to do anything to thwart them."

Sam tips his head in reluctant agreement.

"Who are you thwarting?" Jo says as she stumbles into the kitchen.

"As many things as we can all at once," Dean answers easily before steering the conversation to more public things. Like who's going to cook breakfast. Turns out he is, since he opened his mouth. It also turns out that Dead Dean the First has given him more memories than just Lisa's warm body and his own warm blood. He makes damn fine scrambled eggs now.

Score one for the dead guys.

* * *

  
They're barely out of Sioux Falls when Sam goes back to their previous topic of conversation.

Dean wants to run through the words of the ritual to memorize it. When Bobby had told him it wasn't real Latin but a bastardized wanna-be version, he'd actually been happy, figuring it would be easier to remember, except it wasn't. He's familiar with Latin, knows enough to recognize its structure and rhythms, and this mumbo-jumbo nonsense has none of that. Maybe it made sense to the Trickster but he was probably the only one. However, before Dean can start on that project, before they've even breached the city limits, Sam's asking questions.

"Why else do you want to get out?" Sam asks, turning down the radio, giving Dean his full attention and pulling Dean's to him.

Unfortunately, no one's going to interrupt them this time since Ellen and Jo are travelling in their truck and Bobby's in his Chevelle. Back in the yard, Dean teased them about playing "Convoy" by C.W. McCall as they drove, and he'd called Bobby "Pig Pen". He'd be Rubber Duck, of course. Sam had wanted to smack him for being annoying. Dean took that as a good sign, a sign that they're slowly working their way back to the way it was before he'd made his deal, which means his little brother will be more willing to listen to his suggestions. He just hopes there's enough time.

"You said you've had visits from three ghosts, not one. What did the other ghosts tell you?"

"It doesn't matter," Dean tries to cut him off—this isn't what he wants to talk about.

"It does matter. Because that means you died two more times that you haven't told me about and maybe those deaths are why you… You're different."

"Sam…" Dean sighs. He doesn't want to talk about it. What _use_ is there in talking about it? It's just going to rile them both up and make it harder to do what they have to. He reminds himself that Sam is an adult and can make his own decisions, but he wishes like hell his brother was still his little Sammy who would just trust him.

"After… after you sacrificed yourself to cage Lucifer–" Breathe, dammit. Breathing's good. "After that, we didn't see each other for over a year."

"I was in Hell for a year?" Sam interrupts. His voice is filled with horror.

"Not… no." Dean tells him. "Someone took you out or rather took your body out. They left your soul back downstairs, Sam, and you were… You were the most efficient, ruthless hunter I've ever met. You didn't hesitate to use whatever, whoever, was at hand to achieve your goal." He stops, hoping that's enough, that Sam will be happy with the snapshot, but he doesn't expect it.

The quiet beside him is heavy as Sam processes what's been said.

"Who," he asks finally. "Who did I use?"

Dean says nothing. He doesn't have to.

"You," Sam says, knowing it's true. "I killed you."

Dean can't look at him, can't see him fall apart like he knows Sam will because Sam's a soft touch like that. "You got me killed," Dean corrects him, a small difference but important. Except, in the end, dead is dead. And now he remembers wishing that it was Lisa's face up there, that it was Lisa's hands running over him while he died. He would've liked to say good-bye to Lisa and Ben.

"Shit," Sam's soft exhalation pulls him out of his newly remembered memory.

"Don't worry about it," Dean tells him. "It's not gonna happen now."

The miles pass by with only the road and songs playing too low to hear. Dean checks the rear-view but Ellen is still twenty yards back in her old truck and Bobby's Chevelle a few beats behind her. The sun is coming up lazy and dim in the November sky. It suits the mood inside the Impala and, if Dean were a different person, he'd try to find the symbolic meaning of that. Instead he's just going to hope that Sam'll let the subject drop.

"There were three ghosts," Sam breaks into the silence and ruins Dean's nice little fantasy. "Like the Dickens Christmas story, you said."

Damn it, he had said that.

"So what happened the second time?"

At least this one is fairly easy to answer. "Remember what you said about Sam Hain and the nasty shit that rises with him?"

"They killed you?" Sam's voice has moved a mile away from his earlier aggressiveness but it's still not a question Dean wants to answer. Unfortunately, he waits too long to lie. "It was me, again. I caused it."

Dean coughs because of the memory of blood he can feel running down his throat. "Hain turned you, somehow. Powered up the demon blood or something." It's as much exoneration as Dean can give him. "You tossed me to the zombies." He glances at his brother and risks a small smile, "They really do go for the brains."

Nothing. Stony, concerned pissy-faced-Sam is in full control.

"And the last time, in Windom?" Sam's voice is tight and, Jesus fuck, but Dean hates this. Hates tallying up the ways that Sam's killed him or caused his death. Four times now, including the Deal. More if they count attempts. "Dean," Sam prods, "was it me."

Rock salt in the haunted asylum. Hunted across that dock when Sam was possessed by Meg. But maybe that one doesn't count.

Dean runs a hand over his face, through his hair, as if that will take away the past. "It was, kinda, I guess. Lucifer was wearing you."

He's not going to count the time they were both strung out on Siren venom, plus that was the other history. As was Sam strangling him when he tried to stop him going with Ruby to kill Lilith. Letting him get bitten by vampires, and setting him up as bait for the Alpha Werewolf.

"Jesus." It's a prayer, a denial, a wish for things to be different.

Then there were all the times Sam had let Lucifer in and Satan tried to kill Dead Dean the First but maybe he shouldn't count those either. In fact, if he wants this to work, he should definitely not count those. He shouldn't count any of them. They don't matter anymore. They can't.

"It's not going to happen," he says for about the millionth time.

"No wonder you hate me."

Oh, Jesus… "I don't hate you."

"Okay, maybe not hate, but want to get away from? Definitely. Except it's not fair." Sam finally turns to face him and his expression is half-hurt, half-angry. "You blame me for stabbing you. Okay, I deserve that, but then you blame me for stuff my future selves did in some other timelines, and that I'm _not_ going to do anymore. I mean, I get it, you're pissed but it's like I'm not even your brother anymore."

"That is _not_ what this is about," Dean says, but it's like stopping the Mississippi.

"You just can't wait to get away from me—"

"Shut _up_ , Sam!" It's his turn to interrupt. "You want to know the main reason I'm thinking of getting out?" Sam nods reluctantly.

"For that year, I lived with Lisa and Ben. I worked a regular job and drove a regular truck. One that hadn't been outfitted with hidden compartments for storing illegal weapons. I went to baseball games and soccer games, family dinners and neighborhood barbeques. And it would've been really nice—weird, but nice—except that I thought you were trapped in the Pit with Lucifer riding your ass."

Sam stares at him, processing it, and hopefully thinking that it sounds nice. "You want to go back to that."

Dean hums low in his throat because he has to phrase it correctly. Entice and tempt: slow, slow, slow. "Something like it, I think. It should be better this time, because you're alive and I know you're alive. If you want to keep on hunting full-time I won't stop you, but I can at least make sure you have a place you can come back to—heal up, restock, whatever. Or you can try settling down like me. We can get together on weekends for football games and beer."

He almost wishes he could generate that siren's venom because it would make this so much easier. Treating Sam like an adult might be a good thing in the long run, but in the short term it's sucking ass.

Sam's jaw is out, canted at a stubborn angle. "So suddenly you think that life will be better?"

"Come on, Sam, can you really see us doing this in five years? Ten? How about twenty?" Dean laughs. "Do you actually like being stuck in a car with me eight hours a day, every single day? I mean, I drive too fast and I'm bossy. You hate my music."

Sam can't help but smile. "You _do_ listen to the same five albums over and frigging over again."

Dean shrugs easily; he's not ashamed of his music. "I like to sing along."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Bitch," Dean says to test the water. He watches his brother closely, and sure enough, Sam tries to hide a small smile. Whatever he's doing, it seems to be working. "You're not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, either. For one, you're gassy," he points out. "You eat half a burrito and you get toxic." This time it's Sam's face that turns red. "We know things about each other that brothers just should not know."

Sam's not looking at him. He's staring out the window, hiding his eyes, but Dean can see him chewing on his lip, holding something in. "What is it?" Silence. "We can throw in the occasional soccer game," he offers, because his brother used to be into the sport, but Sam's still not talking. In fact, he's got his arms crossed, is chewing on his bottom lip, and his leg's vibrating like a massaging bed. All signs that his brother's working up to something.

"Sam, talk to me."

"You never call me Sammy anymore."

Dean's brain stops as he tries to process that statement but he really has no luck in understanding it. "And?"

"And what? That's it."

Dean frowns because the dots just aren't connecting for him. He checks the rear-view automatically—ugly truck still there—before returning his focus to his baby brother who seems to have developed his own language or something. "I'm sorry, man, but I need a little more. I mean, you hate being called Sammy."

"I know." Sam's looking at his lap.

"But you're upset because I finally respect your wishes."

One shoulder lifts and Sam turns to look out the window. His cheeks are red. "I guess."

He cannot fucking win.

"Are you sure those ghouls didn't snack on some important male bits? I mean, come on! I try to treat you like an adult and all that crap, and it makes you think I don't love you anymore." He tries to keep his tone light—teasing rather than the bat-fuck insane he's feeling—but it's hard. He doesn't know where he stands with his brother anymore, hasn't since he found out about Ruby and that blood-sucking revenge bullshit. He'd been hoping that they'd been doing better, but now he's not so sure.

Sam is staring at him.

"What?" Dean glares the question at his brother.

"Is that what you've been doing? Trying to treat me like an adult?"

"Yeah." What the hell else would he be doing? "And it's fucking _hard_."

Sam laughs outright.

"Laugh all you want, ass-wipe."

"I'm not laughing at _you_ ," he says even as he keeps on chuckling. "It's just that I discarded that idea."

Oh.

"You actually said it a couple times though. It just didn't sink in."

"It's one of the things Dead Dean the First made sure I'd remember," Dean says. "That feeling of knowing that a lot of the shit we did, the bad choices we made, were a result of either me being over-protective or you rebelling. And I may not be the brightest guy on the planet, but kill me a couple times and I _do_ learn."

Sam laughs. "I always knew you letting me grow up would be a sign of the Apocalypse."

"Oh, ha, ha," he says, but the words have no real bite because Sam's sitting shotgun and grinning at him like he hasn't done in a long time.

"You suck at it, you know."

Dean sniffs and lifts his nose. "I don't suck. _You_ just suck at growing up or something."

"I'll get better," Sam says. He's still smiling. It's a good sign that their little chat is maybe over—please God, let it be over—but Dean doesn't turn up the stereo or anything insensitive like that, just lets Sam think in the quiet, white noise that's them on the road.

Sam twists in his seat so that he faces Dean. All Dean can do is steal sideways glances. "I always knew you wanted that life," he says. "Apple pies, white picket fences and a dog."

"You're the one who wanted a dog."

'Whatever," Sam shrugs. "Even when we were kids, you were always the one nagging me about keeping our latest dump clean. You made sure the laundry was done and the garbage was out."

Dean shifts uncomfortably on the seat. "Only because it had to be done." And Dad wasn't there to do it half the time, goes unspoken but understood.

Sam laughs suddenly. "Remember that place in Indiana?"

No, Dean doesn't. They've been to a lot of places in Indiana.

"Old Mr. Jewison, the WWI vet. You used to do his lawn and you wouldn't let him pay you."

Now Dean remembers. "He told awesome stories," he defends his younger self even as he feels his cheeks heat in a blush and Sam, who often shows more tact than his older brother, doesn't tease him about it. Dean remembers he'd liked doing Mr. Jewison's lawn. He'd enjoyed the whirring sound of his old push mower (that Dean kept sharp for him) and the smell of the fresh-cut grass. The overly sweet lemonade had been gross, but Dean could never say 'no' to it since the old guy made it as a special treat.

"Actually, the more I think of it the more I think it'll suit you: being a responsible neighbor."

Dean thinks there might be cautious acceptance in Sam's tone, still not where he needs his brother to be, but closer than he was before. He needs to make some concessions here, he know this, so he sighs and confesses, "To tell the truth, as much as I'm growing to like the idea, it still freaks me out."

Sam chuckles. "Dean Winchester, respectable citizen? I think we're all entitled to a little freak-out."

"Bitch." This time Dean is smiling full out.

And Sammy's smiling back. "Jerk."

"Dean." The angel's voice is quietly urgent. It is also completely unexpected but Dean manages to keep his surprise out of the steering wheel so they don't careen all over the road like a drunk.

It doesn't stop him cursing though. "Jesus, God, Cas! Warn a person."

"Don't blaspheme."

Sam snorts.

Dean tries to glare at them both equally. "Don't pop into existence in the back seat of my car when I'm going eighty then."

"It was too important to wait until you were travelling at a safe speed."

"You could've been waiting a long time," Sam says, still smiling.

"Exactly," Castiel agrees with innocent condemnation and Sam barks out another laugh. "However, Dean's driving is not my concern."

Sam sobers. "What happened?"

"I told Zachariah about Gabriel being alive and in hiding and yet still working to prevent the Apocalypse. He reacted as you had predicted." There is a universe of disillusionment in the angel's voice.

"Cas, I'm sorry," Dean offers simply. Sam nods agreement.

"They want Lucifer to rise so that the End of Days can begin. They are willing to condemn billions of our Father's final creation in order to be free of the duty He put upon us so long ago." He looks between them, guileless blue eyes lost and bewildered. "I do not understand how they can think this is what God wishes."

Sam's looking at him too, as if he's got all the answers. They're just lucky that he does, sort of. "It's because He's been silent for so long, Cas."

"It does not change what He said."

"No, it doesn't," Dean agrees. "But, without Him around reinforcing His orders, it gets easier to bend them, or ignore them." Castiel says nothing more, just stares through the front window looking blank and unhappy. "So, aside from being dicks about the Apocalypse, what're the bosses doing now?"

"I believe the remaining archangels are searching for Gabriel with limited success. His disguise seems to be remarkably effective."

"He's had a couple millennia to perfect it," Sam points out.

"And Zachariah?" Dean asks. "What's he up to?"

"Assisting Michael and Raphael. He is known for his persistence when given a task by any of the archangels."

"Brown-noser," Dean grunts in agreement. He sees in the rear-view that Castiel's looking at him in puzzlement. "He decided to show up in my dreams one night."

As soon as he says it Dean realizes that Zachariah's visit happened in some other Dean's life, not this one. Shit.

"I am unaware that Zachariah was taking a personal interest in you."

He ignores the unspoken question for a blunter one of his own. "Is Uriel going to be following you?"

"Probably," Cas answers shortly. "Why are you interested in what Zachariah or Uriel, or any of the angels, are 'up to'? How will their appearance, or lack of it, alter your plans? You _have_ got a plan, haven't you?"

"Dude," Dean forces a chuckle, "I just want to know where they're going to be."

Castiel's eyes narrow and Dean can feel the anger start to rise within the heavenly warrior. "Gabriel isn't helping you, is he? That was a shaded truth you wished me to pass on. I have done so." His voice drops practically into the sub-sonic range; "Now I would appreciate the truth."

"Cas…"

"The _truth_ , Dean. Not a shade or a variety. If you wish for my assistance in whatever it is you have planned, then you will not lie to me or prevaricate or redirect."

The threat is clear, unambiguous, and the angel has a right to it, but Dean cannot tell him. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He looks at his brother in panic and Sam—Sammy—understands.

"Dean's been getting visits from ghosts."

Cas moves his gaze to Sam. "Ghosts," he repeats without inflection, which somehow makes him sound even more skeptical.

"Time-travelling ghosts of himself, coming back from the future."

"How many?"

"Three," Sam answers. "That I know of…" he looks at Dean and Dean nods.

"Why?"

"It's a-a spell, or something," Sam sounds hesitant. He's back to looking at Dean. So is Castiel.

"That's right," Dean confirms now that he can speak again. "A spell. It kicks in when I die violently."

"No." There is no doubt or possibility of argument. "It is not possible."

"Of course it's possible," Sam says. "It's happened; I've seen it."

Castiel's head tips as he considers this new information. Dean would drum his fingers on something if it wouldn't be a complete give-away, but he hopes to Christ that the angel lets it go at that.

No such luck, of course. "Who cast the spell and why?"

Sam opens his mouth and shuts it. "I, uh… Good questions, actually." He turns to look at Dean again and Castiel's stare follows. "Who did cast it?"

Dean tries a disdainful sniff. "You don't think I could do it?"

Sam snorts. Cas continues staring. "God can have prophets deliver information across universes and histories as my brethren aren't limited to a linear existence. However, once a human's physical existence has ended—a _normal_ human's existence—they either move to a new reality or become ghosts in this one that continue to exist linearly."

"But ghosts have moved through time before," Sam argues.

"Not without God's intervention and I will not believe that is what happened to your brother."

"What? Aren't I special enough?" When Cas swings his intense gaze back to him, Dean wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. He really should learn to do that.

"It is not improbable that you would be important enough for our Father to step into your life to give advice. It is, however, impossible that He could do so without the Garrison being aware of it. His presence…" Castiel's voice trails off and his face takes on an expression Dean's only seen in the aftermath of sex— _great_ sex. "His presence rings like a bell through all of us. I would have felt Him and I have not."

"So not God," Sam feels the need to confirm when Dean would much rather he shut up. Cas shakes his head. "Something as powerful?"

"There are very few beings as powerful as God, and I can't see any of them taking an interest in Dean."

"Thanks," Dean says dryly.

They're staring at him again. He can feel the pressure in their gazes like hands on his shoulders. He squirms. "So why are you being sent back?" Sam asks and his voice, normal and unweighted, makes him jump.

It's another question he can't answer.

"Maybe to do exactly what I am doing," he says instead. "Saving the world." It's not a complete untruth, but he adds his best 'I'm awesome' grin and he can see Sam giving up on the question. Cas, however, is a harder sell. His eyes narrow appraisingly. Dean cocks his eyebrow at him, "What? Isn't that kind of what the angels wanted me for?"

It makes the angel jump and look away. If he'd been human, he'd be blushing guiltily.

"What if you can't?" Sam asks him. "Save the world, I mean.'

This one is easy. "Keep coming back until I do."

Death after death after death.


	12. Chapter 12

Wounded Knee is bare and windswept, but not abandoned. From the piece of wood screwed onto the historical information sign changing the title from 'Battle of Wounded Knee' to 'Massacre of Wounded Knee', to the flowers and dream-catchers lovingly placed on the graves of people who had died since then, there are signs that this place is still used, still remembered. Mostly, however, it is empty. There are a few trees and the road cutting across a long view of rolling hills and distant cliffs. It screams of desolation and abandonment, and the stark, hard beauty of the plains.

It's perfect.

Castiel is waiting for them as they pull up in the parking lot of the Visitor's Center. He's holding what looks like a half-full sandbag but Sam knows it's bones from the bodies of people who'd been possessed by demons, who'd died because of those demons. When Bobby had originally translated that section they'd decided not to bother. It would've been beyond difficult to get the ingredients and it was optional anyway. However, that was before they had an angel who volunteered to find, retrieve and clean the bones. He'd also got them the holy oil.

Sam's beginning to see why they'd grown so fond of the angel in the other future (that wasn't going to happen anymore). It's like having their very own super-powered sidekick. Not much could be cooler than that.

Of course sidekicks usually come with attitude.

"Why are we here?" the angel asks before they'd even got out of the car.

"Did you want philosophy, Cas, or the mechanics?" Dean snaps back automatically. "I'm generally considered better with the second than the first."

Sam knows it's just Dean being nervous but it still makes him roll his eyes. "Because this is where the ritual is going to take place."

"The ritual to banish Lilith," Cas says again. As it was in the car, the angel's voice is so carefully devoid of disbelief that it's like shouting. Sam admits that it makes him feel better than he's not the only one who's got doubts.

"I explained it in the car," Dean says impatiently. "There was a lot of innocent blood at Wounded Knee." He's already going to the trunk to get supplies.

Cas looks into the distance in that weird angel way of his. "One hundred forty-six were killed in the immediate vicinity," he announces. "It lingers," he says in response to their stunned looks.

Sam decides to ignore that comment and continue the explanation. Maybe if he says it enough times he'll believe it'll work the way Dean believes it. "The wall between realms, or whatever, is thinnest where innocent blood was spilled." Cas nods solemnly. "And we want to shove Lilith down as far as she can go so that it takes her another hundred millennia to get back out."

"And this ritual will do that?"

"Well," Sam hedges because he doesn't think it's a good idea to lie to an angel of the Lord. "The Tric—Gabriel's book says it can." He flicks a glance at the only other angel he really knows, in his rumpled suit and messy hair. "Would he… would Gabriel lie about it?"

Blue eyes turn his way. They are empty of emotion and yet more scornful because of it. "He has been lying to his family for three thousand years. Here," Cas hands over the bag he's been holding. "These are the bones you requested. I've crushed them for you so they are ready to use."

"Um, thanks," Sam says as he takes the bag. It's a lot heavier than he thought it would be.

"Hey, Cas," Dean calls from the back of the car. "Any sign of Zachariah or Uriel or any of your other angel pals?"

"I am blocking them for now, but that will not work once you start the ritual. From what you have said, too many forces will be put into motion for me to successfully mask it."

Sam clears his throat. He shoots a quick glance at his brother and is nothing but relieved when Dean gives a tiny nod and hands over the ingredients from the trunk. "You're better at drawing symbols and shit, Sam—Sammy. I'll tell Cas the rest."

Sam doesn't argue, just grabs the supplies and books it over to where Bobby and Ellen and Jo are calculating distances. The long grass is slippery from the weight of half-melted snow, and the wide valley provides no protection from the wind. To Sam's right is Wounded Knee Creek, only recognizable as a creek because there are bushes and trees lining it. Behind and to the left is the hill containing the cemetery and the Memorial. In front of him is another hill. Even from here, Sam can see the large Hotchkiss guns, left in position as a reminder of the Army's power. Four of them were used: four revolving automatic rifles shooting 1.64-inch bullets into a crowd of mostly women and kids and unarmed men.

Jesus, humans are horrible to each other, Sam thinks.

In places like this, he can see the benefit of ending everything, wiping everything clean and starting over. With the bees, maybe. Except they'd probably grow up to be as venal and ignorant and mean as humans are.

At the portable table they set up, Jo is organizing the ingredients for the protections they're going to paint on Dean. Bobby and Ellen are discussing the best location for the main circle. Sam's got nothing to do but haul supplies from the vehicles and brood. He develops a rhythm and lets himself zone out. Back and forth. Back and forth. Occasionally passing Dean as his brother hauls supplies and mutters the words of the incantation. Castiel's nowhere to be seen and all Sam can do is hope that Dean managed to talk him into helping them. The sun is at its highest point by the time the vehicles are just about emptied. He just has one more trip, but when he reaches the Visitor's Center, there's a new vehicle in the parking lot—a truck in even worse shape than Ellen's. It's a single-cab Ford, and it's at least thirty-years old. It was blue once—maybe. Large chunks have rusted away but the rust lays a single color over its patchwork body. Sam looks around but he can't see the owner.

"In my vision, you were much shorter," says a voice from beside him. Sam can't help it: he jumps. "Not much doubt you're the one I'm looking for, though." The stranger tips his chin toward their vehicles. "The cars are distinctive."

Sam looks down and sees a Native American man—he can distinguish tribes in print, but not in person—of about Bobby's age, wearing standard western gear. His hair is braided and his hat has a beaded band with an eagle feather in it. He looks so much like a movie stereotype that Sam wonders if he's real. Sam takes another look around—there's nobody else. "Christo," he says, just to be sure.

The guy gives him a small smile. "Don't worry. I'm not Christian. Makes it hard for one of your devils to take me over."

On the one hand it's reassuring: they don't need any demons showing up unexpectedly. On the other: how the hell does this guy know what they're doing? "Who are you?"

"Whites have always been blind," the man says instead of answering. "For centuries your way has been the only way, the only one allowed. Whites often forget there are other beliefs, other gods, who will be harmed by the Christian Apocalypse."

"You're not Coyote or someone like that, are you?" Because it would be just their luck to run into a _real_ Trickster god here and now.

The man chuckles, low and quiet. "No, not Coyote. I try not to have much to do with him. He can be a dangerous being to know, but there are others who are willing to fight for their world, their people."

"Did you get visited by a spirit?" Sam asks without enthusiasm.

This time the elder laughs out loud. Genuine humor that lifts the dreary air for a moment. "No visits. No ghosts. Nothing that easy to understand." He pauses but the smile doesn't leave his face. "I had a vision. It told me to come here, to explain—to help."

Sam swallows. This is more mystic shit and it makes him nervous. _However_ , considering what's at stake, he's pretty sure he can't refuse. "We'd appreciate it."

Now the smile's more in the eyes than anything. Suddenly, Sam's reminded of Castiel's eyes: filled with ageless wisdom, and a connection with something beyond the physical. The man speaks and Sam blinks out of the moment. "Too much blood was spilled here. The air is filled with sorrow and the end of hope." Sam nods when the man looks at him with his odd, knowing eyes: he can feel it too. "You can use it as a focus for your Christian ritual, but it was Indian blood that was spilled here."

"We mean no disrespect," Sam assures him. "We—" We're trying to save the world, he almost says but, Jesus, that sounds ridiculous and pretentious. The stranger waits as Sam sputters to a stop.

"In this place, if you wish to bend the Earth to a great task, you must honor the Four Quarters."

"The Four Quarters?" Four quarters in a dollar, is all Sam can think.

"Four Directions, if you prefer. Google it. I'm sure you'll figure it out. Oh, and here–" He hands over a bundle of loosely woven grass stalks. "Sweet grass, to purify. Tell your brother to breathe it in deep, bathe in it. It will help protect him in this place."

Sam takes it. "Thank you."

"If what I dreamed is correct, I should be thanking you." The man finally smiles and Sam smiles gratefully back. At least he hopes he looks grateful and not abso-fucking-lutely floored _._ The stranger tips his hat and walks over to his ancient truck. It starts with a cough and a bounce then it shakes its way back down to the main road.

Sam watches as smoke from burning oil combines with the dust from the pitted access road. He doesn't hear Dean walk up to him. "Who was that?"

Once again, he jumps, startled into uncoolness. Dean smirks, but says nothing, waiting for his response. "I have no idea," Sam says, "but he dreams too."

"Oh great," Dean moans, rolling his eyes. "More mystical shit."

Sam hums agreement, twirling the sweet-smelling stalks in his fingers. He explains the encounter as Dean hauls the last load into the valley. When he asks his brother if they should believe the old guy, Dean grunts and says "Yeah. Didn't Kali say we're not the only religion, and He's not the only God?"

"Kali?" Sam stops and stares at his brother. "Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction."

Dean also stops. He frowns at Sam and then his brow clears. "Oh yeah, you haven't got to that episode yet. Won't get to it…" Then Dean's rubbing his head as if it hurts and Sam knows it's because his brother's finding it hard to keep all their histories straight. He actually stumbles, as if trying to take a stair that doesn't exist where they are.

"What was she like?" he asks to distract Dean from the jumbled up mess in his brain.

"Gabriel said she was 'all hands'." Dean snorts wiggling the fingers on his free hand. Sam just raises his eyebrows and Dean sobers quickly. "Ah, actually, she was scary. And hot. And completely out of my league."

Sam smiles because Dean obviously hit on her and got turned down and squashed flat. They're now close enough to hear Bobby yelling. "That is not the way to find true north!"

"Don't shout at me, Singer," Ellen yells back. "I'm not the one who brought the cheap second-hand surveying equipment."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Castiel offers calmly and shuts off the argument. Sam watches as the angel takes five steps to the left then kneels. He places his hands on the ground, one to either side of him, and then lifts all but his pointer fingers. "This is the line to true north."

Ellen and Bobby stand slack-jawed. Jo's smiling. She walks over with her tiny flags and forces them into the ground at the tips of Castiel's fingers.

"You told him?"

Dean runs his hand through his hair making it stand up. Sam realizes that Dean doesn't fuss with his hair anymore. When they first got back together, after Palo Alto, Dean used to spend time tousling it 'just so'. Now he keeps it trimmed and lets it lie wherever. He stopped some time before Hell, Sam thinks, but he can't remember when. "Yeah, I told him."

"And?" Sam prods when Dean shuts up. This is kind of important.

"He needed to check something first."

"Dean, it's kind of an important part of the ritual." Every word is distinct and clear and there's no way for Dean not to know how concerned he is.

"I know, Sam."

"Without an angel, it's not going to work."

"I _know_ ," Dean repeats. "But he needed to confirm what I told him before he'll bring anyone here."

"And if it's not how you think?"

Dean gives him a look that says what a crazy idea that is. "Aside from the fact that I _am_ right, he says he'll do it if it's the only way."

"He knows it could kill him?"

Dean chews on his lips and refuses to answer. "It's not going to happen."

Sam stares at his brother who's not looking at him. For whatever reason, the angel has become one of the few people Dean lets in. Sam doesn't need to be psychic wonder boy to know that Dean's only hoping he's telling the truth. He's got as much knowledge on how this'll go as the rest of them. Meaning: they have no fucking clue.

Yeah, think happy thoughts, he tells himself, because wishes do come true. Then he snorts, wishes also turn bad; they turn very, very bad.

Seen from the top of the ridge, the trap looks like a combination of a Solomon's star and the pentagram Colt used as the lock on his door to Hell, with the multi-pointed design enfolded within the simpler five-pointed star. They nearly ran out of the rowan berry paint but, once again, the angel came through.

With the rowan berries at least.

When Sam had asked him about getting an angel to come, Castiel had looked at him with cold eyes and, in an even colder voice, had stated he was working on it. Sam had backed off. Despite some anger management issues, he wasn't stupid.

Around both stars, they added the double circle containing Enochian words of power and protection. That was where they used the ground demon bones, salt and holy oil. Sam had mixed the stuff up and it had been weird and rather disturbing. Like rubbing his hand over fiberglass or one of those ion spheres. He'd stirred it, but he couldn't really say he'd _mixed_ it. In fact, he would swear the only reason the bones and the oil stuck together was the salt. Even now, nearly half an hour later, none of the holy oil had soaked into the fragments. They were as pale and dry-looking as they'd been in the bag.

Weird and really disturbing: heavenly objects didn't like tainted bones. Did that mean he'd never get into Heaven? He'd been possessed. Hell, he has demon blood tainting his bones _without_ possession required. Lucifer's perfect vessel.

Dean said he came back from Hell without his soul…

He still doesn't quite understand how any of it could be real. For one, not having a soul? How had he walked around without one? What kind of person had he become? Not a nice one, since he'd used his brother as bait for whatever had killed him. In the future that isn't going to happen anymore.

Is it too late to become an atheist, he wonders idly.

"Sam, get yer butt down here!" Bobby's voice, trained to project over heavy equipment and gunfire, carries easily to the cemetery where Sam is contemplating some of the possible outcomes to The Plan.

He looks down at the marker, plain except for the feather etched into the stone. "Wherever you are," he whispers to the bones in the grave and through them to the spirit they'd once housed, "please pray for us." Then he turns and walks down the hill to the site. They have a Coleman stove set up on the table and a small pot on top of it. They're warming a mix of asafetida, rosemary, cinnamon, blessed wine and a couple other things, over the flame. It's a cleansing-protective brew that Dean has to drink and it's about the only thing that reconciles Sam to the fact that his brother will be performing the ritual. It smells… bad. Really bad. In fact, it reeks like spiced compost made from sweaty socks.

From the look on his brother's face, Dean is thinking he'd sacrifice one of them to get out of drinking it.

"Are we sure Sam can't do this?" Dean, usually so gung-ho to protect Sam from danger, whines.

"You're the one that Lilith had the contract on," Ellen says. Her voice hitches and she quickly lifts the brush from Dean's cold-bumped skin. "You've got the connection."

"You've eaten worse things," Jo says. She, too, is concentrating extremely hard on painting the protective symbols on Dean's skin. From the color on her cheeks she's enjoying it a lot more than Ellen.

"She's right," Sam joins in. "Some of the stuff I saw you and Ash eat was probably a new life form, just waiting to be discovered. You're definitely the best man for the job."

Dean glares at him. "Coward."

Sam smiles, trying to maintain the teasing mood. Except Sam _does_ want to be the one facing down Lilith, sending her back to the deepest, darkest, most isolated part of Hell so that it takes until the sun cools for her to claw her way up to shouting distance of the surface. He wants to see her face, contorted in despair and helpless anger, and laugh as she'd laughed at him while the Hellhounds tore Dean apart. Everything in him yearns to be able to say "No. This time I'm doing the dangerous stuff and Dean's staying safe." But he can't. Because they're right. He may hate her and she may want to use him, but that's not a connection. At least not enough of one for this.

He pushes down the anger once more.

"It's not cowardly to like my stomach lining to remain free of holes," Sam manages to joke. Feeble, but still valid. "I found out what that guy meant about 'honoring the Four Quarters'," he says to head off any more complaints about who had to do what. "Most Native American belief systems divided the world into four. If you look at them, medicine wheels and dream catchers, all usually start with a circle divided that way."

"Makes sense," Jo comments and Bobby grunts agreement.

"They matched up stages of the day to the stages of life and assigned them to certain quarters," he reads from his notes. "East is the beginning, of course—rising sun and all that. There are words but, really, the important thing is to give thanks for the warmth of the sun and for the new day. To pray for the power of knowledge."

"Sounds like your spot, geek-boy," Dean says awkwardly. He's smiling and it's a little lop-sided like his teasing. Sam's about to say something sharp back then he realizes that Dean's trying. He's trying to be the big brother Sam remembers, so they can be brothers the way they'd been before deals and Hell, before ghosts and Ruby. He's trying to fix it just like he always does.

He swallows back the angry retort. "Well I _am_ a shining example of manhood," he says instead.

"Modest, too," Jo giggles at him.

Sam smiles back, his best imitation of Dean's 'charming the pants off a mark' grin. "All part of my allure."

"Can I throw up now?" Bobby asks.

"Just don't mess up the paint," Ellen answers. "I don't want to do this again." She squints at the drawing Bobby's holding up and frowns. "You know there was a _reason_ I ran a bar. I am not now, and never will be, a Suzie-Q-homemaker type. I don't make curtains or crochet tablecloths, and I never painted pretty little clouds or rainbows anywhere."

"You want me to do it?" Bobby offers.

Ellen huffs, "No. I just want to whine about it. That way I'll fit in better."

Dean protests and is told to stop talking and hold still. It's light and comfortable and nothing like how Dean described the hours before they got ready to go after Lucifer with the Colt in that other life. Sam finds it reassuring as if, because this is changed, they'll change the rest of it too.

At least, he hopes they can change the rest of it.

"We should honor south next. South marks the sun at its highest point and represents the spirit of earth and the power of life, peace and renewal. Face south and give thanks for the gift of life on this moist earth. You're supposed to pray for the power to grow and for peace in the world."

"Kind of the whole idea behind this exercise, ain't it?" Ellen snorts. "Singer, hold that damn piece of paper up higher." Bobby rolls his eyes, but lifts the paper obediently.

Sam's smiling as he reads his notes. "West is the spirit of water. Huh, weird." He stops.

"What is?" Jo asks.

"Well it says West is the source of darkness," he explains. "Which is weird because that's where the sun travels to."

Dean looks up from where he's studying the actual words of the ritual. "What else does it say?"

Sam hadn't actually read the pages, just copied it all down. He skims through it now. "West is the power of change, the place of dreams, introspection, and the unknown."

"Fear of the unknown, fear of the dark," Dean says and it makes sense.

"It's also purity and strength. When you face west, you're supposed to give thanks for the water of life. Pray for purity and strength. Pray for self-awareness, self-understanding," Sam finishes. "The final direction is north, obviously. It represents the spirit of the wind as well as the wisdom and experience gained over time, whether it was earned during the day or the whole lifetime. Face north and give thanks for the great, white, cleansing wind. Pray for the wisdom of experience."

"If you live that long," Bobby mutters.

Sam doesn't want to hear that so he ignores it, pretends Bobby never said it. It's too close to what Dean had talked about. "There are colors that go with each direction, but I'm not sure how to work them into the ritual. Actually," he admits with a rueful chuckle, "I'm not sure how to work any of this into the Trickster's ritual."

"Oh, that's easy," Jo says absently.

She's kneeling and painting protections on Dean's feet. If this wasn't so important—and if her mother weren't standing _right there_ —Sam would be having thoughts that were vaguely pornographic (he's always liked Jo) but this _is_ that important and Ellen _is_ right there, so Sam confines himself to a more pertinent question: "How is it easy?"

"Well, we're Dean's anchors, right? Four anchors, four directions. We'll do the honoring before Dean starts his incantation."

She's right; it's easy.

"Who's taking which direction?" Dean asks, looking up from the slip of paper on which Bobby wrote the words to the ritual and that Dean is still trying to memorize.

"Well, I'm East," Jo says. "Youngest person here."

"By that logic, Bobby's North, since he's the oldest and all." Sam's sure he kept his smile hidden but Bobby makes a face at him and mutters "idjit". It actually feels nice to be insulted and that just makes him smile for real. This is going to work; they're going to figure it out.

God, he hopes they figure it out.

It only takes them a bit to decide on Ellen as South since the nurturing earth is often associated with a mother figure and she's the only female parent here. "Stereotyping," she mutters in disgust. They carefully don't snicker.

That leaves West for Sam. It fits well enough since he's the thinker of the bunch ("over-thinker" is Dean's caustic comment) plus so much of his life has been hidden from him for so long. They decide against using food as the offering ("We got cheap beer and old jerky," Dean says, "maybe some stale Cheetos.") It's Jo who thinks of wearing something in the color that matches their direction and so it's a scramble to find something. West and North are no trouble since black and white are plentiful in all their wardrobes, but finding red for Jo makes Ellen blush even as she opens her duffle. Sam and Bobby politely ignore the fact that their friend apparently has red underwear with her, but Dean grins and calls her "awesome".

The hardest item to find is yellow. Sam used to have a shirt with yellow bits but it's been used as a grease rag so often the yellow is hard to find. Plus it stinks and Ellen refuses to touch it. Bobby finally digs out an old Caterpillar cap he'd gotten years ago and had tossed into the back of his Chevelle.

"Can't I just put it in my back pocket?" she asks, turning the bright yellow monstrosity in her hands.

Jo takes it and puts it on her mother's head, bill backwards. "There. Now you're pimping."

The men carefully don't laugh.

"Are we finally ready?" Ellen's voice is dry, dry, dry.

"Not even," Dean replies. His voice is tight and his face is pale and Sam knows he's more nervous about this than he's willing to let people know. Like the rest of them, he swallows down his nerves and gets ready to do what needs to be done.

"Where's the angel?" Bobby asks as they move to where the circles are drawn.

"He'll be here," Dean answers lightly.

Ellen frowns at him. "You sure about that?"

"It's about the only thing I _am_ sure about in this whole mess."

They break apart to assume their positions—Dean hopping delicately on his bare feet over the lines laid on the old grass, careful not to disturb anything. It would be funny if it weren't so serious.

They stand facing the center which is the lowest point of the circles. Dean's in position on his spot in the north arm of the pentacle. He's barefoot and shirtless, and covered with protections painted dusty red on his skin. It looks like Dean's freckles got together and decided to party, Sam thinks, and kind of wishes he could take a picture to tease him with later, because they're totally going to survive this and have the kind of relationship where they can tease each other without running into all kinds of hidden triggers and sore spots and, yeah, he really needs to focus here.

There's no signal, no waiting for the second hand to reach the top, just Jo nodding to them and turning to face east.

"We give thanks for the warmth of the sun after cold times, and we welcome this day and the days ahead. Give us the power of knowledge and the ability to use it wisely and well."

It's not exactly the same as what Sam found but perhaps it's more fitting in this situation.

Ellen's prayer follows seamlessly. "We give thanks for the gift of living on this Earth. We pray for the power and time to grow. We ask for peace for all the creatures that belong on the Earth." Sam nearly laughs at Ellen's version. It's a small, but salient, change considering they're facing off against demons and angels.

It's his turn.

"We thank the Earth for the water that sustains us. We ask for purity and strength of purpose, and enough self-awareness to know what our true purpose is." Oddly, he feels a thrum in his bones, as if someone had played the lowest note in the register. Huh.

"We give thanks for the cleansing wind," Bobby's voice brings him back to the world around him. "We ask that it sweep away the dust and debris in our lives to make room for the knowledge of ourselves and others that experience brings."

There isn't a sudden wind, the sun isn't dramatically covered by previously non-existent clouds—there's not even a trilling bird or shrieking hawk. It would be a letdown except that part of Sam doesn't expect this to work. Which is stupid and possibly self-destructive, but it's true. He wants to kill Lilith even if it means Dean doesn't get his 'apple-pie life'. Maybe especially…

God, he's a petty, selfish bastard.

Dean's voice picks up after Bobby's. "Lilith, _filomena humanus. Me commandum, tu obeyum_." Sam has to grit his teeth against the _wrongness_ of the incantation. " _Comen tu circumcircus."_

Dog Latin. Why the hell had the angel picked _dog_ Latin, which isn't even Latin at all, really. Maybe, like Dean said, it's another way for the archangel to thumb his nose at his uptight brethren.

"Lilith, _filomena Deus. Nomen tu potentum tu. Lungimur nos fates_ ," Dean continues, stumbling a little over the nonsense words. The ritual itself makes sense in English. In English, and just about any other real language, the words would have dignity and power and grace—for the most part.

"Lilith, _filomenainferna,_ " Dean pauses. Maybe he feels as stupid saying them as Sam feels hearing them. " _Emergo, emergo, quo est tu."_

It translates roughly as 'come out, come out, wherever you are', and is one of the reasons Sam doesn't believe the spell will work. Trickster or not, that phrase has no place in a serious summoning.

Dean throws the match in the bowl containing the dittany of Crete and lilac mix. It catches right away and fizzles and smokes and smells kind of pleasant, but nothing happens and Sam feels a satisfaction that he knows is petty and unjustified, but he was right; he'd been right all along. This whole banishment thing was a stupid idea.

In the background, Dean is going through the incantation for the second time.

" _Emergo, emergo, quo est tu_ ," Dean says and he lights the second bowl filled with sandalwood and yew. It also catches right away, and fizzles and smokes, and smells nice. Sam holds his breath. Then the air chills and the wind picks up.

But that doesn't necessarily mean anything; after all, it is November in South Dakota. The wind blows chilly all the time…

The third time Dean completes the incantation and lights the bowl there's no mistaking the effect. Clouds form, winds blow, and the air temperature drops to near freezing; there's even a distant roll of thunder. He shuts his eyes because, yeah, it's a little over the top, but it's still a little scary—it actually worked. His heart thumps, his limbs tingle and he can't seem to catch his breath. They're actually doing this, he tells himself. They're banishing Lilith.

When he opens his eyes again, a slim blond woman is standing in the devil's trap they'd drawn inside the pentagram. It's the same one that had threatened him in Kripke's Hollow. Lilith must have gone back and reclaimed the body.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," she says and her voice drips with the same contempt that Sam remembers from before. The anger surges, filling him, making his skin feel too small, his bones too tight. He wants to kill her. No, not just kill her: crush her, reduce her body to rubble and her demon soul to ash. He vibrates with the desire—the _need_ —to punish her. Forget the stupid ritual. Forget the Apocalypse. Those aren't _real_. Real was Dean looking at him so scared but trying to be brave, trying to be his big brother. Real was watching Dean get torn, shredded, by Hell Hounds. That _she'd_ let in…

He'd been helpless then; he isn't helpless now.

He lifts his foot, in preparation for his attack. This time, he thinks, she can't escape.

Then the air behind him compresses and he smells ozone and citrus, and hears the beating of large wings. "What is going on?" asks a voice that, in its way, is just as contemptuous of the humans as Lilith's. The angels have arrived.

"It is as I've told you," Castiel responds. "Dean and his brother have discovered a ritual that will banish Lilith."

"Banish her?" Uriel repeats.

Lilith laughs. "Banish me? Oh puh- _leeze_. Do you honestly think this'll work? On _me_?"

"It _is_ ridiculous," Uriel echoes with a sneer. "Talking apes playing with things they don't understand. What do they think they'll accomplish with this _farce?_ "

"Dean will stop the Apocalypse," Castiel argues calmly. "Just as he was destined to do."

"Dean Winchester." There's more than contempt in the angel's voice, more than disdain in his dark eyes. There's anger and hatred enough to condemn the whole human race.

Dean ignores him, ignores them both, as he lays out the final items for the ritual. "Lilith, child of Lucifer, do you believe in your cause?" he asks formally.

"Are you serious?" she sneered.

"Lilith, child of Lucifer, you will answer," he orders. "Do you believe?"

Sam can see it when the compulsion grabs her; she stiffens, choking. Behind him Castiel is asking Uriel the same question. "You know I believe in doing what's right, Castiel," the angel answers. He's not sneering, not where they can see, but it's in his voice.

"I do know that, Uriel," Castiel's voice is, as always, solemn and rather sad.

Uriel shrugs, dismissing his blue-eyed companion. He turns back to face the circle where Dean is forcing the answer he needs from the demon who killed him less than a year ago. The angel is frowning angrily and Sam realizes he's going to break the circle and stop the ritual—probably killing Dean in the process—and he's torn between killing Lilith or protecting his brother.

He needn't have worried. The large angel shifts his balance but that's all he manages before Castiel flickers, moving too fast for Sam to track. One instant he was _there_ , the next he's grabbed Uriel's arm and is twisting his hand up and out. "I'm sorry, my brother," Castiel says.

"No!" Uriel shouts outraged, "You are going to undo everything." He tries to duck but Castiel moves with him, tightening his hold.

"I am also doing what I believe." He sidesteps, turning, and somehow the much larger 'specialist' is on the ground. Castiel is kneeling on Uriel's back, pinning him.

"Castiel, think about this. Do you know who you are disobeying with your actions?"

"I am obeying our Father," is Castiel's determined response. He forces Uriel's open hand over the line of holy oil and ground demon bones. A long length of silver flashes—Castiel's blade—and Uriel cries out in pain and anger and a frustrated knowledge that he's failed. Nearly half the sword's length is buried in the earth, stabbed through the larger angel's hand. A blue-white glow seeps out of the wound and the blade shimmers delicately.

Then the circle ignites.

Blue-white, like the grace of the angel that is powering it, the flames have no heat but Sam can feel it under his skin, like a just-fading charley-horse. It makes his teeth hurt.

"You _bastard_ ," Lilith shouts.

Dean ignores her and starts the next part of the ritual.

"Lilith, _prima conjuga. Ego commandare_." Sam almost hears the thrum that makes his lungs shiver.

"What _is_ that you're saying?" she taunts even as she fights against the ritual's hold. "I mean, we always knew you were the stupid one, but you'd think, after all this time, you could manage basic Latin."

Sam wants to punch her for that: Dean is not stupid. He proves it by ignoring her taunts.

" _Domum ingressus, desidera tu_ ," he says calmly and clearly. He'd spent a lot of time learning the stupid not-Latin and it's paying off now. It's another thing that's different about his brother. He doesn't always jump in blind. Although, Sam's not sure if the change is because of Hell, or being stabbed or visiting ghosts. Whatever. It's a good change to see in a hunter. If they're going to continue hunting.

Which Dean says he isn't. Damn it!

Sam can see that Lilith's fighting the incantation. She's twisting, her fingers flexing into claws, and her eyes are solid white. Her hair is floating around her in an almost-living ball, which is actually freakier than the eyes. There are sweat stains under her arms and along her spine so he knows it's taking a lot out of her. Her suffering makes him happy and he doesn't care how far from the angels that takes him. Then he looks at Dean and sees his brother's sweat-slick skin and the lines of strain on his face and it takes some of the shine off the feeling of triumph. Then he takes another, closer look, and he's not sure it _is_ sweat making Dean's skin wet.

Sam squints, peering intently at his brother's side. Is it…

It _is_. Fucker.

The wound's opened up again. If Dean starts to bleed heavily, it'll wipe out some of the protective symbols and Dean will be dragged down to Hell with Lilith, if he lasts long enough to actually send her there. Sam knows his brother is a stubborn, determined son of a bitch, but he's not sure that will be enough.

" _Domum, ubi cogitare. Domum, ubi canere._ "

He's so intent on Dean that Sam doesn't notice Castiel moving to the south-east section of the circle. The angel lines himself up to the point of the pentacle, slices his hand and places it carefully on the already glowing circle. "Power freely given," he chants.

The results are spectacular. The blue-white light flares then runs into the central pentacle where it changes to a red-white glow that matches the rowan berries they'd mashed to make the ink. It lowers to a modest knee-high, but the strength of it is making Sam's bones vibrate and he has to swallow to equalize the pressure on his ears, which is so bad it feels as if he's climbed Everest in an instant.

It's not helped by the noise that Uriel, on the ground beside him, starts making. It's a sound so high-pitched and piercing that it could shatter cement, let alone glass. This is the sound Dean described hearing at the isolated gas station after he pulled himself out of his coffin, the one that destroyed the hotel room in Pontiac. This is the angel's true voice.

He wants to fall down and curl into a protective ball around his head. Instead, Sam plants his feet. There's no fucking way they're losing because he can't handle a little pain.

" _Domum, ubi amare, silensi por tu_."

He can still hear Dean—which is freaking amazing—but he can't see his brother anymore. There's a shape he knows is his brother, a broad-shouldered form that's limned in the glow from the circles, but he can't _see_ Dean. He has no way of knowing if he's still bleeding, if he's in pain, or if he's looking at a frozen Popsicle in the shape of his brother.

The noise and the pressure run through his bones and his blood. He's panting, like he's just run twenty miles—while being chased by Black Dogs. He feels warm wetness on his upper lip and knows he's bleeding.

Grow a pair, he growls at himself. Just one line left.

"Lilith _, prima daemon,_ " his brother says firmly. " _Accelerato infernato._ "

They're not real words, not even close to being real Latin, but they work. The light from the circle bends, dipping toward the devil's trap where Lilith is silently screaming. The ground itself is twisting, dipping down like a gravity well in space and time—a black hole forming right under her feet. Uriel's whine increases in pitch until Sam feels blood running from his ears, too.

The hole pulls the light down into it, so that he can see Dean. He can see how his brother's braced against the pull of the black hole thingy even though Sam can't feel anything. There's a breeze out here, but nothing like what's making Dean's jeans ripple and flap. He's actually swaying because the wind inside the circle's so strong. He's got an arm clamped over the wound in his side and Sam swears, if they make it out of this alive, he's dragging Dean into the nearest hospital for proper care.

Suddenly, Lilith's scream is audible and Sam's gaze whips towards her—his enemy, his nemesis—afraid she's figured out a way to escape. She hasn't. Her body is being stretched, legs pulled down into the hole and it looks like a kid playing with chewing gum. From the waist down Lilith is pencil thin; from waist to neck there's distortion—the first signs of what's to come—but from the neck up, her whole head, her face, there's no change, no blurring—nothing to hide that fact that this is hurting the demon. She's pulled and stretched and she screams and screams.

Good.

He should check on Ellen and Bobby, see how they're doing but he can't take his eyes off Lilith. The demon inside her is pulsating with light and it's like watching the special effects in a science fiction movie. She's getting thinner and longer. Her arms are in the hole up to her elbows and her chin is beginning to elongate. It must be affecting her vocal cords because her scream dies out even though her mouth is still open.

Then she's gone.

It's a blink-and-you've-missed-it moment, and Sam almost lurches forward thinking that she did, in fact, manage to escape at the last moment, but no. It's just that she's been sucked down into whatever Hell the ritual opened for her. From his position slightly above the circles, Sam can see the hole closing, becoming shallower until—with an almost audible snap—the topsoil is flung back into place. The force of it pushes the light back out and it whips around inside the circle. Sam actually sees it impact the sides of the outer circle, can imagine the sound it would've made if light were capable of creating sound. The circle stops the force from escaping so he and Bobby, Ellen and Jo are safe from the kickback.

Dean isn't.

Dean is trapped inside the circles with all that returned power and energy. Sam watches helplessly as his brother is finally plucked off his feet. He's flung up and up, two full body lengths—three—into the air before he hits the outer edge. There's no sound of impact unless he counts Dean's grunt and the crunch of bone that Sam thinks might be his brother's collarbone. That's not the worst of it, though, because the wind dies while Dean's still in the air, and with nothing keeping him aloft, he falls straight down.

Jesus fucking _Christ_ , he thinks helplessly as he watches his brother fall the equivalent of two stories.

"Cas! Cas!" he calls, not really certain why he's calling on the angel, but Castiel looks up, sees Dean falling, and flings out a hand as if he can stop it.

He can't. Castiel's whiter than the light that's still flowing through the outer circle and throwing his hand up like that just makes him overbalance. He falls forward and his hands go out to catch himself, off the line of holy oil and demon bones. The light falls to half-brightness as Dean lands with a sickening crunch.

"Shit!" Sam yells. He steps forward without thinking and hits what remains of the shield.

"Damn it," he practically shouts, then he steps sideways until he can kick Uriel's hand off the line. There's a final flash before the light runs out of the circle. The big angel doesn't move from where Sam kicked him. He might be dead but Sam doesn't care. He hasn't really pulled his gaze from where his brother's lying motionless on the hard ground. He can't see any blood coming out of Dean's mouth, but the knife wound has definitely opened again, and that's providing enough blood for two or three cheap horror movies.

'Goddamn stupid freaking supernatural knife!' he curses soundlessly, as if it's the knife's fault that Dean has a wound that won't heal properly. He runs across the circles, heedless of the carefully drawn lines. They've served their purpose and avoiding them would slow him down. He's already ripping his shirt off as he slides in beside his brother.

Fuck, he's so pale.

"Dean," he calls as he presses the shirt to the cut. It's bleeding thick and lazy and Sam tries to see it as a good sign, and he would, except it matches the beating of Dean's heart.

"Dean. Don't do this to me, man," he says and it's a prayer. "We won. Dean, we won. Lilith's gone. The Apocalypse is over. You can't leave me now."

Not again, not again, _not again._ It echoes in his brain, drowning out whatever Bobby or Ellen might be saying.

This is what he's been afraid of. All those times that Dean had talked about getting out, quitting hunting, it had been this: being left behind, alone. Like those months he'd spent in the Trickster's world or when Dean had actually been in Hell and it had been just him. He'd had no anchor, nothing to remind him that he wasn't only anger and power.

"God, Dean," he whispers as he bends over his brother's body. He's checking for injuries, barely even aware that he's doing it. Collarbone's definitely gone. Can't tell if there's a spinal injury. Breathing is shallow but not wet.

He can't do this without his brother, not and still be Sam, the very human hunter and little brother to Dean's pain-in-the-ass older brother. And he knows suddenly that Dean provides the foundation for his humanity, and he knows what he's afraid of. He's afraid, if Dean leaves him for Lisa and the white picket fence, that maybe he won't be there for Sam anymore and then Sam will somehow become the soulless robo-killer of Dean's future without having to go to Hell first.

But that's stupid. Dean wouldn't abandon him, not anymore. Maybe he wouldn't be all Sam's but Sam could learn to live with that. He could learn to share.

"Don't leave me again," he whispers into his brother's ear, but there's no one to hear him.


	13. Chapter 13

"Hello, Dean."

Dean picks himself up off the ground, which should've been covered by snow-wet grass, not grey, stone tiles. He sees the person—the being—the voice belongs to and freezes.

"Have a seat." A gnarled hand, long, thin and elegant, indicates the seat across from him.

Dean swallows but does as he's told because that's what one does when Death invites you to dine.

"I've decided to expand your horizons, Dean. We're having sushi."

Raw fish. Joy.

"Don't worry. I've chosen salmon. A rather resilient species I admire. As I've grown to admire you, Dean."

Yeah, that's not scary at all.

He looks down at his plate at the colorful rounds of rice and fish and other stuff he can't name. He's never had sushi. Never had any desire to. He picks one up. "Am I dead then?"

"Not at all." Death slurps his drink. Green tea, Dean identifies. Lisa used to drink it. "You have a serious concussion, which was enough for me to arrange our talk. You will be difficult to awaken for a while, however."

Dean just nods, waiting for Death to continue. Death, for his part, looks at him and then at the food in his hand. Dean takes the hint and puts it in his mouth.

"Not bad, yes?"

It's… different. Certainly not something he'd choose for himself, but not bad. He gives a small shrug. Satisfied, Death takes a piece of his own. The Horseman uses chopsticks, the show-off.

It's funny, but Dean always meets Death over food. It's always good food, but he can never enjoy it because having Death as his dinner companion completely wrecks his appetite. It dulls his taste buds and turns his stomach into a ball of hot lava. Today is no different. He chews determinedly and swallows down the gooey mass.

"Is it done?" he asks. "Have I fixed it?"

"Yes, it is fixed. With Lilith gone, no more seals will be broken, and the ones that were will eventually heal themselves. The angels and the demons will have to start over. The Mother of All Things—such a pretentious title, don't you think?—is still locked in Purgatory. There's no civil war in Heaven and chaos no longer reigns."

He eats another piece of sushi. It's better than he thought it would be. "So, we're good?"

"Indeed. You have fulfilled your task: I am returned to the same level of inevitability as taxes." Death gives a small smile at his joke.

Dean tries to return it. So many meaningless deaths, literally meaningless because something always brought them back to be killed again, have just been averted. It's good news, good enough that he lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It's also good because it means this meeting is over. He starts to rise but Death holds up a hand.

"There is that other matter we talked about." Death lifts his napkin and tidily wipes his mouth. "How you and your brother should step out of the limelight, as it were. How is that coming along?"

"It's, um…" Breathe damn it. "It's do-able." Death lifts a skeptical eyebrow. It's a threat not to bullshit him and Dean knows it. "I just have to convince Sam, give him a little nudge, that's all."

"You've managed to derail the plans of some very powerful creatures, Dean, and as I said before, it would be best if you and your brother were both to keep your heads down for quite some time. I'd hate for either of you to repeat your mistakes." It's a threat and the sushi Dean's eaten suddenly feels like plutonium rods in his stomach, but Dead Dean the First had explained this part to him very, very carefully, so he nods in understanding and agreement.

"It would help if I could mention our talks. Fill him in…" Dean stops as Death looks at him with a little frown.

"That was not part of the deal."

"I know," Dean agrees quickly. "It's just… you're _Death_." Dean stops because Death's looking at him again. There's a little smile, almost a smile, on the Horseman's face.

"Are you saying I have more authority over your brother than you?"

Dean wants to roll his eyes and say "duh" but he's not concussed enough to think that's a good idea. "You're a Horseman of the Apocalypse; I'm only his big brother. He's used to ignoring me."

Death looks at him, calm, assessing and so frigging impersonal. Dean can't help himself: he swallows nervously.

The Horseman sips his tea and wipes his lips on the paper napkin. "Very well. You may inform him of our arrangement and give him my recommendation." Death gives a slightly larger smile and Dean barely refrains from flinching. From the change in Death's expression, he doesn't do a very good job of it.

The Horseman drains his small cup and sets it down on the table with a slight click. Dean waits.

"Now, as much as I've enjoyed our little tête-à-tête, I do have other things to oversee. Have a good life, Dean."

He doesn't put two fingers on Dean's head. He doesn't snap his fingers or wiggle his nose. One moment Dean's eating sushi with Death, the next he's waking up groggy and sore on a cold, wind-swept field, and Sam's staring down at him with wet, red eyes. He's been crying.

"Dean! Jesus fuck. You were almost dead!" In those eyes are panic and anger but mostly bitter, unquenchable grief, so unlike the impersonal puzzlement that Soulless Sam had displayed, or the avaricious enjoyment of the demonic Sam, or Lucifer's cold amusement. This is his brother: fully and completely, Sam Winchester—snot and all.

"Not this time, Sammy," Dean scratches out. "This time we're both going to live… as long as you do exactly what I say."

Sam stares down at his brother. It’s great that he’s back and mostly alive but “The Italian Job? Really? You remember the original didn’t exactly end on a happy note.” It ended with half the bus hanging off a cliff in the Italian Alps with the gold dragging them over and Michael Caine stuck for ideas.

“They totally got off of the mountain,” Dean croaks. “You know I believe it.”

And Sam knows that Dean does believe it because Dean has always believed that if they just try hard enough, long enough, they eventually figure everything out.

Kind of like they just did.

He finally smiles. “Yeah, whatever,” he concedes. He’s got his brother back again so they can negotiate the rest.

They’ve got the time.  


**Author's Note:**

> **THE RITUAL**
> 
>  
> 
> **The Location**  
>  I have never been to Wounded Knee but I knew enough to know that watching _Thunderheart_ wasn't going to cut it as research. I visited many official sites but the best description I found was this one from Scott Grannerman's journal entry dated Saturday, 30 June 2007. 
> 
> _We reached the Wounded Knee Memorial, which is really just a sign along the side of the road, at the site of the actual massacre. The sign's written description of the event is detailed and takes up both sides. Interestingly, the title - again, on both sides - originally must've said The Battle of Wounded Knee, but someone has screwed a piece of wood over it onto which is painted the word 'Massacre'. It's a pretty desolate spot._
> 
> _The 4 big guns the soldiers shot indiscriminately into the crowd of Indians are on this hill._
> 
> Retrieved 6 Apr 2011 from http://www.granneman.com/personal/journals/2007plains/20070630.htm.
> 
>    
>  **The Four Directions**
> 
> Of course, once I'd chosen Wounded Knee as the site for the ritual, I had to include some elements of Native American beliefs. The idea of this Christian ritual taking over the massacre site seemed somehow disrespectful. However, according to "Hammer of the Gods", the other deities were actively working against the Apocalypse; therefore it's not inconceivable that a Lakota elder might have had a vision telling him to be at a certain place at a certain time in order to help prevent the world's destruction.
> 
> I got most of my information at fourdirectionsteachings.com. I read a lot on their site but used an embarrassingly small amount.
> 
>  
> 
> **The Incantations:**
> 
> I didn't want to use straight Latin as it didn't seem to fit the book that Gabriel wrote. When someone suggested [Pig Latin](http://www.wikihow.com/Speak-Pig-Latin), I thought 'ah ha!' but a quick search revealed [Dog Latin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_Latin), which is a bastardization with a long history. Perfect. Except it's a lot harder than I thought to create puns and find homonyms in a language I don't know well. Even straight up 'making English words sound pretentious' wasn't as easy as it should have been. After all, there had to be some rhythm to the thing! 
> 
> Next time, I'll stick with the Pig Latin.
> 
> Summoning Lilith:
> 
> Lilith, daughter of Man. I command and you must obey; I summon you to this circle. | _Lilith, filament humanus. Me commandum tu obeyum; Comen tu circumcircus_  
> ---|---  
> Lilith, daughter of God. I know your name and I know your power because of the tie you forged between us. | _Lilith, filament deus. Nomen tu potentum tu. Lungimur nos fates_  
> Lilith, daughter of Hell. Come out, come out, wherever you are | _Lilith, filament infernos. Emergo, emergo, quo est tu_  
>   
> Banishing Lilith: (with apologies to Simon and Garfunkel)
> 
> Lilith, first wife This is what I command | _Lilith, prima conjuga. Ego commandare_  
> ---|---  
> Homeward bound. I wish you were | _Domum ingressus. Desidera tu_  
> Home, where [your] thought's escaping | _Domum, ubi cogitare_  
> Home, where [your] music's playing | _Domum, ubi canere_  
> Home, where [your] love lies waiting | _Domum, ubi amare_  
> Silently for you | _Silensi por tu_  
> Lilith, first demon. Go to hell | _Lilith, prima daemon. Accelerato infernato_


End file.
